COST 


DAVID  GHAHAM  PHILLIPS 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  COST 


**  BEAUTIFUL  !"  SAID   PAULINE,    "MAY  I  ASK  WHOM    IT'S  FOR?' 


THE  COST 


By 
DAVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


Author  of 

"The  Master-Rogue" 
"  Golden  Fleece,  Etc." 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

HARRISON  FISHER 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS         :  :  :        NEW  YORK 


OF  C 


COPYRIGHT  1904 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

MAY 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I  A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER 

II  OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE 

III  AND  SCARBOROUGH 

IV  A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH 
V  FOUR  FRIENDS 

VI  "  LIKE  His  FATHER  " 

VII  PAULINE  AWAKENS 

VIII  THE  DECISION 

IX  A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY 

X  MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT 

XI  YOUNG  AMERICA 

XII  AFTER  EIGHT  YE^  AS 

XIII  "Mv  SISTER-IN-LAW,  GLADYS** 

XIV  STRAINING  AT  THE  ANCHORS 
XV  GRADUATED  PEARLS 

XVI  CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS 

XVII  TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER 

XVIII  ON  THE  FARM 

XIX  PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS 

XX  A  MAN  IN  His  MIGHT 

XXI  A  COYOTE  AT  BAY 

XXII  STORMS  IN  THE  WEST 

XXIII  A  SEA  SURPRISE 

XXIV  DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT 
XXV  THE  FALLEN  KING 

XXVI  A  DESPERATE  RALLY 

XXVII  THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT 

XXVIII  AFTER  THE  LONG  WINTER 


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THE  COST 


THE  COST 

I. 

*•» 

A   FATHER    INVITES    DISASTER. 

Pauline  Gardiner  joined  us  on  the  day  that  we, 
the  Second  Reader  class,  moved  from  the  base 
ment  to  the  top  story  of  the  old  Central  Public 
School.  Her  mother  brought  her  and,  leaving, 
looked  round  at  us,  meeting  for  an  instant  each 
pair  of  curious  eyes  with  friendly  appeal. 

We  knew  well  the  enchanted  house  where  she 
lived — stately,  retreated  far  into  large  grounds 
in  Jefferson  Street;  a  high  brick  wall  all  round,, 
and  on  top  of  the  wall  broken  glass  set  in  cement. 
Behind  that  impassable  barrier  which  so  teased 
our  young  audacity  were  flower-beds  and  "shrub" 
bushes,  whose  blossoms  were  wonderfully  sweet 
if  held  a  while  in  the  closed  hand;  grape  arbors 
and  shade  and  fruit  trees,  haunted  by  bees ;  wind 
ing  walks  strewn  fresh  each  spring  with  tan-bark 
that  has  such  a  clean,  strong  odor,  especially  just 

after  a  rain,  and  that  is  at  once  firm  and  soft 

1 


2  THE  COST 

beneath  the  feet.  And  in  the  midst  stood  the  only 
apricot  tree  in  Saint  X.  As  few  of  us  had  tasted 
apricots,  and  as  those  few  pronounced  them  bet' 
ter  far  than  oranges  or  even  bananas,  that  tree 
was  the  climax  of  tantalization. 

The  place  had  belonged  to  a  childless  old  couple 
who  hated  children — or  did  they  bar  them  out 
and  drive  them  away  because  the  sight  and  sound 
of  them  quickened  the  ache  of  empty  old  age  into 
a  pain  too  keen  to  bear?  The  husband  died,  the 
widow  went  away  to  her  old-maid  sister  at  Madi 
son;  and  the  Gardiners,  coming  from  Cincinnati 
to  live  in  the  town  where  Colonel  Gardiner  was 
born  and  had  spent  his  youth,  bought  the  place. 
On  our  way  to  and  from  school  in  the  first  weeks 
of  that  term,  pausing  as  always  to  gaze  in  through 
the  iron  gates  .of  the  drive,  we  had  each  day  seen 
Pauline  walking  alone  among  the  flowers.  And 
she  would  stop  and  smile  at  us;  but  she  was  ap 
parently  too  shy  to  come  to  the  gates;  and  we, 
with  the  memory  of  the  cross  old  couple  awing  us, 
dared  not  attempt  to  make  friends  with  her. 

She  was  eight  years  old,  tall  for  her  age,  slender 
but  strong,  naturally  graceful.  Her  hazel  eyes 
were  always  dancing  mischievously.  She  liked 
boys'  games  better  than  girls'.  In  her  second 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  3! 

week  she  induced  several  of  the  more  daring  girls 
to  go  with  her  to  the  pond  below  town  and  there 
engage  in  a  raft-race  with  the  boys.  And  when 
John  Dtimont,  seeing  that  the  girls'  raft  was 
about  to  win,  thrust  the  one  he  was  piloting  into 
it  and  upset  it,,  she  was  the  only  girl  who  did  not 
scream  at  the  shock  of  the  sudden  tumble  into 
the  water  or  rise  in  tears  from  the  shallow,  muddy 
bottom. 

She  tried  going  barefooted ;  she  was  always  get 
ting  bruised  or  cut  in  attempts — usually  success 
ful — at  boys*  recklessness ;  yet  her  voice  was  sweet 
and  her  manner  toward  others,  gentle.  She  hid 
her  face  when  Miss  Stone  whipped  any  one- 
more  fearful  far  than  the  rise  and  fall  of  Miss 
Stone's  ferule  was  the  soaring  and  sinking  of  her 
broad,  bristling  eyebrows. 

From  the  outset  John  Dumont  took  especial  de 
light  in  teasing  her — John  Dumont,  the  roughest 
boy  in  the  school.  He  was  seven  years  older  than 
she,  but  was  only  in  the  Fourth  Reader — a  lag 
gard  in  his  studies  because  his  mind  was  incurious 
about  books  and  the  like,  was  absorbed  in  games, 
in  playing  soldier  and  robber,  in  swimming  and 
sledding,  in  orchard-looting  and  fighting.  He 
was  impudent  and  domineering,  a  bully  but  not 


3  THE  COST 

a  coward,  good-natured  when  deferred  to,  the 
feared  leader  of  a  boisterous,  imitative  clique. 
Until  Pauline  came  he  had  rarely  noticed  a  girl 
— never  except  to  play  her  some  prank  more  or 
less  cruel. 

After  the  adventure  of  the  raft  he  watched 
Pauline  afar  off,  revolving  plans  for  approach 
ing  her  without  impairing  his  barbaric  dig 
nity,  for  subduing  her  without  subduing  himself 
to  her.  But  he  knew  only  one  way  of  making 
friends,  the  only  kind  of  friends  he  had  or  could 
conceive — loyal  subjects,  ruled  through  their 
weaknesses  and  fears.  And  as  that  way  was  to 
give  the  desired  addition  to  his  court  a  sound 
thrashing,  he  felt  it  must  be  modified  somewhat 
to  help  him  in  his  present  conquest.  He  tied  her 
hair  to  the  back  of  her  desk;  he  snowballed  her 
and  his  sister  Gladys  home  from  school.  He 
raided  her  playhouse  and  broke  her  dishes  and — 
she  giving  desperate  battle — fled  with  only  the 
parents  of  her  doll  family.  With  Gladys  shriek 
ing  for  their  mother,  he  shook  her  out  of  a  tree  in 
their  yard,  and  it  sprained  her  ankle  so  severely 
that  she  had  to  stay  away  from  school  for  a 
month.  The  net  result  of  a  year's  arduous  efforts 
was  that  she  had  singled  him  out  for  detestation 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  5 

— this  when  her  conquest  of  him  was  complete 
because  she  had  never  told  on  him,  had  never  in 
her  worst  encounters  with  him  shown  the  white 
feather. 

But  he  had  acted  more  wisely  than  he  knew, 
for  she  had  at  least  singled  him  out  from  the 
crowd  of  boys.  And  there  was  a  certain  frank 
good-nature  about  him,  a  fearlessness — and  she 
could  not  help  admiring  his  strength  and  leader 
ship.  Presently  she  discovered  his  secret — that 
his  persecutions  were  not  through  hatred  of  her 
but  through  anger  at  her  resistance,  anger  at  his 
own  weakness  in  being  fascinated  by  her.  This 
discovery  came  while  she  was  shut  in  the  house 
with  her  sprained  ankle.  As  she  sat  at  her  corner 
bay-window  she  saw  him  hovering  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  now  in  the  alley  at  the  side  of  the  house, 
now  hurrying  past,  whistling  loudly  as  if  bent 
upon  some  gay  and  remote  errand,  now  skulking 
along  as  if  he  had  stolen  something,  again  seated 
on  the  curbstone  at  the  farthest  crossing  from 
which  he  could  see  her  window  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye.  She  understood — and  forthwith  for 
gave  the  past.  She  was  immensely  flattered  that 
this  big,  audacious  creature,  so  arrogant  with  the 


6  THE  COST 

boys,  so  contemptuous  toward  the  girls,  should 
be  her  captive. 

When  she  was  in  her  first  year  at  the  High 
School  and  he  in  his  last  he  walked  home  with 
her  every  day;  and  they  regarded  themselves  as 
engaged.  Her  once  golden  hair  had  darkened 
now  to  a  beautiful  brown  with  red  flashing  from 
its  waves;  and  her  skin  was  a  clear  olive — pallid 
but  healthy.  And  she  had  shot  up  into  a  tall, 
slender  young  woman ;  her  mother  yielded  to  her 
pleadings,  let  her  put  her  hair  into  a  long  knot 
at  the  back  of  her  neck  and  wear  skirts  almost 
to  the  ground. 

When  he  came  from  Ann  Arbor  for  his  first 
Christmas  holidays  each  found  the  other  grown 
into  a  new  person.  She  thought  him  a  marvel 
of  wisdom  and  worldly  experience.  He  thought 
her  a  marvel  of  ideal  womanhood — gay,  lively, 
not  a  bit  "narrow"  in  judging  him,  yet  narrow 
to  primness  in  her  ideas  of  what  she  herself  could 
do,  and  withal  charming  physically.  He  would 
not  have  cared  to  explain  how  he  came  by  the  ca 
pacity  for  such  sophisticated  judgment  of  a  young 
woman.  They  were  to  be  married  as  soon  as  he 
had  his  degree;  and  he  was  immediately  to  be 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  7 

admitted  to  partnership  in  his  father's  woolen 
mills — the  largest  in  the  state  of  Indiana. 

He  had  been  home  three  weeks  of  the  long  va 
cation  between  his  sophomore  and  junior  years. 
There  appeared  on  the  town's  big  and  busy  stream 
of  gossip,  stories  of  his  life  at  Ann  Arbor — of 
drinking  and  gambling  and  wild  "tears"  in  De 
troit.  And  it  was  noted  that  the  fast  young  men 
of  Saint  X — so  every  one  called  Saint  Christopher 
— were  going  a  more  rapid  gait.  Those  turbulent 
fretters  against  the  dam  of  dullness  and  stern  re 
pression  of  even  normal  and  harmless  gaiety  had 
long  caused  scandal.  But  never  before  had  they 
been  so  daring,  so  defiant. 

One  night  after  leaving  Pauline  he  went  to 
play  poker  in  Charley  Braddock's  rooms.  Brad- 
dock,  only  son  of  the  richest  banker  in  Saint  X, 
had  furnished  the  loft  of  his  father's  stable  as 
bachelor  quarters  and  entertained  his  friends  there 
without  fear  that  the  noise  would  break  the  sleep 
and  rouse  the  suspicions  of  his  father.  That  night, 
besides  Braddock  and  Dumont,  there  were  Jim 
Cauldwell  and  his  brother  Will.  As  they  played 
they  drank;  and  Dumont,  winning  steadily,  be 
came  offensive  in  his  raillery.  There  was  a  quar 
rel,  a  fight;  Will  Cauldwell,  accidently  toppled 


$  THE  COST 

down  a  steep  stairway  by  Dumont,  was  picked 
up  with  a  broken  arm  and  leg. 

By  noon  the  next  day  the  town  was  boiling 
with  this  outbreak  of  deviltry  in  the  leading  young 
men,  the  sons  and  prospective  successors  of  the 
"bulwarks  of  religion  and  morality."  The  Episco 
palian  and  Methodist  ministers  preached  against 
Dumont,  that  "importer  of  Satan's  ways  into  our 
peaceful  midst/'  and  against  Charley  Braddock 
with  his  "ante-room  to  Sheol" — the  Reverend 
Sweetser  had  just  learned  the  distinction  between 
Sheol  and  Hades.  The  Presbyterian  preacher 
wrestled  spiritually  with  Will  Cauldwell  and  so 
wrought  upon  his  depression  that  he  gave  out  a 
solemn  statement  of  confession,  remorse  and  re 
form.  In  painting  himself  in  dark  colors  he 
painted  Jack  Dumont  jet  black. 

Pauline  had  known  that  Dumont  was  "lively" 
— he  was  far  too  proud  of  his  wild  oats  wholly 
to  conceal  them  from  her.  And  she  had  all  the 
tolerance  and  fascinated  admiration  of  feminine 
youth  for  the  friskiness  of  masculine  freedom. 
Thus,  though  she  did  not  precisely  approve  what 
he  and  his  friends  had  done,  she  took  no  such 
serious  view  of  it  as  did  her  parents  and  his.  The 
most  she  could  do  with  her  father  was  to  per- 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  9 

suade  him  to  suspend  sentence  pending  the  con 
clusion  of  an  investigation  into  Jack's  doings  at 
the  University  of  Michigan  and  in  Detroit. 
Colonel  Gardiner  was  not  so  narrow  or  so  severe 
as  Jack  said  or  as  Pauline  thought.  He  loved  his 
daughter;  so  he  inquired  thoroughly.  He  knew 
that  his  daughter  loved  Dumont;  so  he  judged 
liberally.  When  he  had  done  he  ordered  the  en 
gagement  broken  and  forbade  Dumont  the  house. 

"He  is  not  wild  merely;  he  is — worse  than 
you  can  imagine,"  said  the  colonel  to  his  wife,  in 
concluding  his  account  of  his  discoveries  and  of 
Dumont' s  evasive  and  reluctant  admissions — an 
account  so  carefully  expurgated  that  it  completely 
misled  her.  "Tell  Pauline  as  much  as  you  can 
— enough  to  convince  her." 

This,  when  Mrs.  Gardiner  was  not  herself  con 
vinced.  She  regarded  the  colonel  as  too  high- 
minded  to  be  a  fit  judge  of  human  frailty ;  and  his 
over-caution  in  explanation  had  given  her  the 
feeling  that  he  had  a  standard  for  a  husband  for 
their  daughter  which  only  another  such  rare  man 
as  himself  could  live  up  to.  Further,  she  had. 
always  been  extremely  reserved  in  mother-and- 
daughter  talk  with  Pauline,  and  thus  could  not 
now  give  her  a  clear  idea  of  what  little  she  had 


10  THE  COST 

been  able  to  gather  from  Colonel  Gardiner's  half- 
truths.  This  typical  enacting  of  a  familiar  domes 
tic  comedy-tragedy  had  the  usual  result :  the  girl 
was  confirmed  in  her  original  opinion  and  stand. 

"Jack's  been  a  little  too  lively,"  was  her  unex 
pressed  conclusion  from  her  mother's  dilution  of 
her  father's  dilution  of  the  ugly  truth.  "He's 
sorry  and  won't  do  it  again,  and — well,  I'd  hate 
a  milksop.  Father  has  forgotten  that  he  was 
young  himself  once." 

Dumont's  father  and  mother  charged  against 
Ann  Arbor  that  which  they  might  have  charged 
against  their  own  alternations  of  tyranny  and 
license,  had  they  not  been  humanly  lenient  in  self- 
excuse.  "No  more  college!"  said  his  father. 
"The  place  for  you,  young  man,  is  my  office, 
where  I  can  keep  an  eye  or  two  on  you." 

"That  suits  me,"  replied  the  son,  indifferently 
— he  made  small  pretense  of  repentance  at  home. 
"I  never  wanted  to  go  to  college." 

"Yes,  it  was  your  mother's  doing,"  said  old 
Dumont.  "Now  we'll  try  my  way  of  educating 
a  boy." 

So  Jack  entered  the  service  of  his  father's  god- 
of-the -six-days,  and  immediately  showed  aston 
ishing  talent  and  twelve-to-fourteen-hour  assid- 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  11 

uity.  He  did  not  try  to  talk  with  Pauline.  He 
went  nowhere  but  to  business;  he  avoided  the 
young  men. 

"It's  a  bad  idea  to  let  your  home  town  know 
too  much  about  you,"  he  reflected,  and  he  re 
solved  that  his  future  gambols  out  of  bounds 
should  be  in  the  security  of  distant  and  large  cities 
— and  they  were.  Seven  months  after  he  went 
to  work  he  amazed  and  delighted  his  father  by  in 
forming  him  that  he  had  bought  five  hundred 
shares  of  stock  in  the  mills — he  had  made  the 
money,  fifty-odd  thousand  dollars,  by  a  specula 
tion  in  wool.  He  was  completely  reestablished 
with  his  father  and  with  all  Saint  X — except 
Colonel  Gardiner. 

"That  young  Jack  Dumont's  a  wonder,"  said 
everybody.  "He'll  make  the  biggest  kind  of  a 
fortune  or  the  biggest  kind  of  a  smash  before  he 
gets  through." 

He  felt  that  he  was  fully  entitled  to  the  rights 
of  the  regenerate;  he  went  to  Colonel  Gardiner's 
law  office  boldly  to  claim  them. 

At  sight  of  him  the  colonel's  face  hardened  into 
an  expression  as  near  to  hate  as  its  habit  of  kind 
liness  would  concede.  "Well,  sir!"  said  he, 


12  THE  COST 

sharply,  eying  the  young  man  over  the  tops  of  his 
glasses. 

Dumont  stiffened  his  strong,  rather  stocky 
figure  and  said,  his  face  a  study  of  youthful  frank 
ness:  "You  know  what  I've  come  for5  sir.  I 
want  you  to  give  me  a  trial." 

"No!"  Colonel  Gardiner  shut  his  lips  firmly. 
"Good  morning,  sir !"  And  he  was  writing  again. 

"You  are  very  hard,"  said  Dumont,  bitterly. 
"You  are  driving  me  to  ruin." 

"How  dare  you !"  The  old  man  rose  and  went 
up  to  him,  eyes  blazing  scorn.  "You  deceive 
others,  but  not  me — with  my  daughter's  welfare 
as  my  first  duty.  It  is  an  insult  to  her  that  you 
presume  to  lift  your  eyes  to  her." 

Dumont  colored  and  haughtily  raised  his  head. 
He  met  the  colonel's  fiery  gaze  without  flinching. 

"I  was  no  worse  than  other  young  men — " 

"It's  a  slander  upon  young  men  for  you  to  say 
that  they — that  any  of  them  with  a  spark  of  de 
cency — would  do  as  you  have  done,  as  you  do! 
Leave  my  office  at  once,  sir !" 

"I've  not  only  repented — I've  shown  that  I  was 
ashamed  of — of  that,"  said  Dumont.  "Yet  you 
refuse  me  a  chance !" 

The  colonel  was  shaking  with  anger. 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  13 

"Ybu  left  here  for  New  York  last  Thursday 
night/'  he  said.  "Where  and  how  did  you  spend 
Saturday  night  and  Sunday  and  Monday?" 

Dumont's  eyes  shifted  and  sank. 

"It's  false,"  he  muttered.    "It's  lies." 

"I  expected  this  call  from  you,"  continued 
Colonel  Gardiner,  "and  I  prepared  for  it  so  that 
I  could  do  what  was  right.  I'd  rather  see  my 
daughter  in  her  shroud  than  in  a  wedding-dress 
for  you." 

Dumont  left  without  speaking  or  looking  up. 

"The  old  fox!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Spying 
on  me — what  an  idiot  I  was  not  to  look  out  for 
that.  The  narrow  old  fool!  He  doesn't  knows 
what  'man  of  the  world'  means.  But  I'll  marry 
her  in  spite  of  him.  I'll  let  nobody  cheat  me  out 
of  what  I  want,  what  belongs  to  me." 

A  few  nights  afterward  he  went  to  a  dance 
at  Braddock's,  hunted  out  Pauline  and  seated 
himself  beside  her.  In  a  year  he  had  not  been 
so  near  her,  though  they  had  seen  each  other 
every  few  days  and  he  had  written  her  many  let 
ters  which  she  had  read,  had  treasured,  but  had 
been  held  from  answering  by  her  sense  of  honor, 
unless  her  looks  whenever  their  eyes  met  could 
be  called  answers. 


14  THE  COST 

"You  mustn't,  Jack,"  she  said,  her  breath  com 
ing  fast,  her  eyes  fever-bright.  "Father  has  for 
bidden  me — and  it'll  only  make  him  the  harder." 

"You,  too,  Polly?  Well,  then,  I  don't  care 
what  becomes  of  me." 

He  looked  so  desperate  that  she  was  fright 
ened. 

"It  isn't  that,  Jack — you  know  it  isn't  that." 

"I've  been  to  see  your  father.  And  he  told  me 
he'd  never  consent — never !  I  don't  deserve  that 
— and  I  can't  stand  it  to  lose  you.  No  matter 
what  I've  done,  God  knows  I  love  you, 
Polly." 

Pauline's  face  was  pale.  Her  hands,  in  her  lap, 
were  gripping  her  little  handkerchief. 

"You  don't  say  that,  too — you  don't  say 
'never'?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  their  look 
thrilled  through  and  through  him.  "Yes,  John, 
I  say  'never' — I'll  never  give  you  up." 

All  the  decent  instincts  in  his  nature  showed  in 
his  handsome  face,  in  which  time  had  not  as  yet 
had  the  chance  clearly  to  write  character.  "No 
wonder  I  love  you — there  never  was  anybody  so 
brave  and  so  true  as  you.  But  you  must  help  me. 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  15 

I  must  see  you  and  talk  to  you — once  in  a  while, 
anyhow." 

Pauline  flushed  painfully. 

"Not  till — they — let  me — or  I'm  older,  John. 
They've  always  trusted  me  and  left  me  free.  And 
I  can't  deceive  ttiem." 

He  liked  this — it  was  another  proof  that  she 
was,  through  and  through,  the  sort  of  woman 
who  was  worthy  to  be  his  wife. 

"Well— we'll  wait,"  he  said.  "And  if  they 
won't  be  fair  to  us,  why,  we'll  have  a  right  to  do 
the  best  we  can."  He  gave  her  a  tragic  look 
"I've  set  my  heart  on  you,  Polly,  and  I  never 
can  stand  it  not  to  get  what  I've  set  my  heart  on. 
If  I  lost  you,  I'd  go  straight  to  ruin." 

She  might  have  been  a  great  deal  older  and 
wiser  and  still  not  have  seen  in  this  a  confirma 
tion  of  her  father's  judgment  of  her  lover.  And 
her  parents  had  unconsciously  driven  her  into  a 
mental  state  in  which,  if  he  had  committed  a 
crime,  it  would  have  seemed  to  her  their  fault 
rather  than  his.  The  next  day  she  opened  the 
subject  with  her  mother — the  subject  that  was 
never  out  of  their  minds. 

"I  can't  forget  him,  mother.  I  can't  give  him 
up."  With  the  splendid  confidence  of  youth,  "I 


16  THE  COST 

can  save  him — he'll  do  anything  for  my  sake.* 
With  the  touching  ignorance  of  youth,  "He's 
done  nothing  so  very  dreadful,  I'm  sure — I'd  be 
lieve  him  against  the  whole  world." 

And  in  the  evening  her  mother  approached  her 
father.  She  was  in  sympathy  with  Pauline, 
though  her  loyalty  to  her  husband  made  her  care 
ful  not  to  show  it.  She  had  small  confidence  in 
a  man's  judgments  of  men  on  their  woman-side, 
great  confidence  in  the  power  of  women  to  change 
and  uplift  men. 

"Father,"  said  she,  when  they  were  alone  on 
the  side  porch  after  supper,  "have  you  noticed 
how  hard  Polly  is  taking— -ft?" 

His  eyes  and  the  sudden  deepening  of  the  lines 
in  his  face  answered  her. 

"Don't  you  think  maybe  we've  been  a  little — 
too — severe?" 

"I've  tried  to  think  so,  but—"  He  shook  his 
head.  "Maggie,  he's  hopeless,  hopeless." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  those  things."  This 
was  a  mere  form  of  speech.  She  thought  she 
knew  all  there  was  to  be  known;  and  as  she 
was  an  intelligent  woman  who  had  lived  a  long 
time  and  had  a  normal  human  curiosity  she  did 
know  a  great  deal.  But,  after  the  fashion  oi 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  17 

many  of  the  women  of  the  older  generation,  she 
had  left  undisturbed  his  delusion  that  her  good 
ness  was  the  result  not  of  intelligence  but  of 
ignorance.  "But  I  can't  help  fearing  it  isn't 
right  to  condemn  a  young  man  for  ever  because 
he  was  led  away  as  a  boy." 

"I  can't  discuss  it  with  you,  Maggie — it's  a 
degradation  even  to  speak  of  him  before  a  good 
woman.  You  must  rely  upon  my  judgment. 
Polly  must  put  him  out  of  her  head." 

"But  what  am  I  to  tell  her?  You  can't  make 
a  woman  like  our  Pauline  put  a  man  out  of  her 
life  when  she  loves  him  unless  you  give  her  a 
reason  that  satisfies  her.  And  if  you  don't  give 
me  a  reason  that  satisfies  me  how  can  I  give  her 
a  reason  that  will  satisfy  her?" 

"I'll  talk  to  her,"  said  the  colonel,  after  a  long 
pause.  "She  must — she  shall  give  him  up, 
mother." 

"I've  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  to  visit 
Olivia,"  continued  Mrs.  Gardiner.  "But  she 
won't.  And  she  doesn't  want  me  to  ask  Olivia 
here." 

"I'll  ask  Olivia  before  I  speak  to  her." 

Mrs.  Gardiner  went  up  to  her  daughter's  room 
— it  had  been  her  play-room,  then  her  study,  and 


18  THE  COST 

was  now  graduated  into  her  sitting-room.  She 
was  dreaming  over  a  book — Tennyson's  poems. 
She  looked  up,  eyes  full  of  hope. 

"He  has  some  good  reason,  dear,"  began  her 
mother. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Pauline. 

"I  can't  tell  you  any  more  than  I've  told  you 
already,"  replied  her  mother,  trying  not  to  show 
her  feelings  in  her  face. 

"Why  does  he  treat  me — treat  you — like  two 
naughty  little  children  ?"  said  Pauline,  impatiently 
tossing  the  book  on  the  table. 

"Pauline!"  Her  mother's  voice  was  sharp  in 
reproof.  "How  can  you  place  any  one  before 
your  father!" 

Pauline  was  silent — she  had  dropped  the  veil 
over  herself.  "I — I — where  did  you  place  father 
— when — when — "  Her  eyes  were  laughing 
again. 

"You  know  he'd  never  oppose  your  happiness, 
Polly."  Mrs.  Gardiner  was  smoothing  her 
daughter's  turbulent  red-brown  hair.  "You'll 
only  have  to  wait  under  a  little  more  trying  cir 
cumstances.  And  if  he's  right,  the  truth  will 
come  out.  And  if  he's  mistaken  and  John's  all 
you  think  him,  then  that  will  come  out." 


A  FATHER  INVITES  DISASTER  1ft 

Pauline  knew  her  father  was  not  opposing  her 
through  tyranny  or  pride  of  opinion  or  sheer 
prejudice;  but  she  felt  that  this  was  another  case 
of  age's  lack  of  sympathy  with  youth,  felt  it  with 
all  the  intensity  of  infatuated  seventeen  made 
doubly  determined  by  opposition  and  concealment. 
The  next  evening  he  and  she  were  walking  to 
gether  in  the  garden.  He  suddenly  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  drew  her  close  to  him  and  kissed 
her. 

"You  know  I  shouldn't  if  I  didn't  think  it  the 
only  course — don't  you,  Pauline?"  he  said  in  a 
broken  voice  that  went  straight  to  her  heart. 

"Yes,  father."  Then,  after  a  silence:  "But 
— we — we've  been  sweethearts  since  we  were  chil 
dren.  And — I — father,  I  must  stand  by  him." 

"Won't  you  trust  me,  child?  Won't  you  be 
lieve  me  rather  than  him?" 

Pauline's  only  answer  was  a  sigh.  They  loved 
each  the  other;  he  adored  her,  she  reverenced 
him.  But  between  them,  thick  and  high;  rose  the 
barrier  of  custom  and  training.  Comradeship, 
confidence  were  impossible. 


II. 

OLIVIA    TO    THE    RESCUE. 

With  the  first  glance  into  Olivia's  dark  gray 
eyes  Pauline  ceased  to  resent  her  as  an  intruder. 
And  soon  she  was  feeling  that  some  sort  of  dawn 
was  assailing  her  night. 

Olivia  was  the  older  by  three  years.  She 
seemed — and  for  her  years,  was — serious  and  wise 
because,  as  the  eldest  of  a  large  family,  she  was 
lieutenant-general  to  her  mother.  Further,  she 
had  always  had  her  own  way — when  it  was  the 
right  way  and  did  not  conflict  with  justice  to  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  And  often  her  parents  let 
her  have  her  own  way  when  it  was  the  wrong 
way,  nor  did  they  spoil  the  lesson  by  mitigating 
disagreeable  consequences. 

"Do  as  you  please/'  her  mother  used  to  say, 
when  doing  as  she  pleased  would  involve  less  of 
mischief  than  of  valuable  experience,  "and  per 
haps  you'll  learn  to  please  to  do  sensibly."  Again, 
her  father  would  restrain  her  mother  from  inter 
ference — "Oh,  let  the  girl  alone.  She's  got  to 
teach  herself  how  to  behave,  and  she  can't  begin 

20 


OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE  213 

a  minute  too  young."  This  training1  had  pro 
duced  a  self-reliant  and  self-governing  Olivia. 

She  wondered  at  the  change  in  Pauline — 
Pauline,  the  light-hearted,  the  effervescent  of 
laughter  and  life,  now  silent  and  almost  somber. 
It  was  two  weeks  before  she,  not  easily  won  to 
the  confiding  mood  for  all  her  frankness,  let 
Olivia  into  her  secret.  Of  course,  it  was  at  night ; 
of  course,  they  were  in  the  same  bed.  And  when 
Olivia  had  heard  she  came  nearer  to  the  truth 
about  Dumont  than  had  Pauline's  mother.  But, 
while  she  felt  sure  there  was  a  way  to  cure 
Pauline,  she  knew  that  way  was  not  the  one 
which  had  been  pursued.  "They've  only  made  her 
obstinate,"  she  thought,  as  she,  lying  with  hands 
clasped  behind  her  head,  watched  Pauline, 
propped  upon  an  elbow,  staring  with  dreamful  de 
termination  into  the  moonlight. 

"It'll  come  out  all  right,"  she  said;  her  voice 
always  suggested  that  she  knew  what  she  was 
talking  about.  "Your  father'll  give  in  sooner  or 
later — if  you  don't  change." 

"But  he's  so  bitter  against  Jack,"  replied 
Pauline.  "He  won't  listen  to  his  side — to  our 
side — of  it." 

"Anyhow,    what's    the    use    of    anticipating 


22  THE  COST 

trouble?  You  wouldn't  get  married  yet.  And  if 
he's  worth  while  he'll  wait." 

Pauline  had  been  even  gentler  than  her  own 
judgment  in  painting  her  lover  for  her  cousin's  in 
spection.  So,  she  could  not  explain  to  her  why 
there  was  necessity  for  haste,  could  not  confess 
her  conviction  that  every  month  he  lived  away 
from  her  was  a  month  of  peril  to  him. 

"We  want  it  settled/'  she  said  evasively. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  around  anywhere,"  went 
on  Olivia.  "Is  he  here  now?" 

"He's  in  Chicago — in  charge  of  his  father's 
office  there.  He  may  stay  all  winter." 

"No,  there's  no  hurry,"  went  on  Olivia.  "Be 
sides,  you  ought  to  meet  other  men.  It  isn't  a 
good  idea  for  a  girl  to  marry  the  man  she's  been 
brought  up  with  before  she's  had  a  chance  to 
get  acquainted  with  other  men."  Olivia  drew 
this  maxim  from  experience — she  had  been  en 
gaged  to  a  school-days  lover  when  she  went  away 
to  Battle  Field  to  college ;  she  broke  it  off  when, 
going  home  on  vacation,  she  saw  him  again  from 
the  point  of  wider  view. 

But  Pauline  scorned  this  theory ;  if  Olivia  had 
confessed  the  broken  engagement  she  would  have 
thought  her  shallow  and  untrustworthy.  She  was 


OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE  23 

confident,  with  inexperience's  sublime  incapacity 
for  self-doubt,  that  in  all  the  wide  world  there 
was  only  one  man  whom  she  could  have  loved 
or  could  love. 

"Oh,  I  shan't  change,"  she  said  in  a  tone  that 
warned  her  cousin  against  discussion. 

"At  any  rate,"  replied  Olivia,  "a  little  experi 
ence  would  do  you  no  harm."  She  suddenly  sat 
up  in  bed.  "A  splendid  idea!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why  not  come  to  Battle  Field  with  me  ?" 

"I'd  like  it,"  said  Pauline,  always  eager  for 
self -improvement  and  roused  by  Olivia's  stories 
of  her  college  experiences.  "But  father'd  never 
let  me  go  to  Battle  Field  College." 

"Battle  Field  University/'  corrected  Olivia.  "It 
nas  classical  courses  and  scientific  courses  and  a 
preparatory  school — and  a  military  department 
for  men  and  a  music  department  for  women. 
And  it's  going  to  have  lots  and  lots  of  real  uni 
versity  schools — when  it  gets  the  money.  And 
there's  a  healthy,  middle-aged  wagon-maker  who's 
said  to  be  thinking  of  leaving  it  a  million  or  so 
— if  he  should  ever  die  and  if  they  should  change 
its  name  to  his." 

"But  it's  coeducation,  isn't  it?    Father  would 


24  THE  COST 

never  consent.  It  was  all  mother  could  do  to 
persuade  him  to  let  me  go  to  public  school." 

"But  maybe  he'd  let  you  go  with  me,  where 
he  wouldn't  let  you  go  all  alone." 

And  so  it  turned  out.  Colonel  Gardiner, 
anxious  to  get  his  daughter  away  from  Saint  X 
and  into  new  scenes  where  Dumont  might  grow 
dim,  consented  as  soon  as  Olivia  explained  her 
plan. 

Instead  of  entering  "senior  prep",  Pauline  was 
sble  to  make  freshman  with  only  three  conditions. 
In  the  first  week  she  was  initiated  into  Olivia's 
fraternity,  the  Kappa  Alpha  Kappa,  joined  the 
woman's  literary  and  debating  society,  and  was 
fascinated  and  absorbed  by  crowding  new  events, 
associations,  occupations,  thoughts.  In  spite  of 
herself  her  old-time  high  spirits  came  flooding 
back.  She  caught  herself  humming — and  checked 
herself  reproachfully.  She  caught  herself  singing 
— and  lowered  it  to  humming.  She  caught  her 
self  whistling — and  decided  that  she  might  as 
well  be  cheerful  while  she  waited  for  fate  to  be 
friend  her  and  Jack.  And  she  found  that  she 
thought  about  him  none  the  less  steadfastly  for 
thinking  hopefully. 


OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE  25 

Battle  Field  put  no  more  restraint  upon  its 
young  women  than  it  put  upon  its  young  men 
— and  it  put  no  restraint  upon  the  young  men. 
In  theory  and  practice  it  was  democratic,  Ameri 
can,  western — an  outgrowth  of  that  pioneer  life 
in  which  the  men  and  the  women  had  fought 
and  toiled  and  enjoyed,  side  by  side,  in  absolute 
equality,  with  absolute  freedom  of  association. 
It  recognized  that  its  students  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  free,  simple,  frank  way,  that  all  came 
from  a  region  where  individualism  was  a  re 
ligion,  with  self-reliance  as  the  cardinal  principle 
of  faith  and  self-development  as  the  goal. 

There  were  no  dormitories  at  Battle  Field 
then.  Olivia  and  Pauline  lived  in  one  of  the 
hundred  or  more  boarding-houses — a  big,  square, 
vvhite  "frame,"  kept  by  a  Mrs.  Trent,  the  widow 
of  a  "hero  of  two  wars." 

Her  hero  had  won  her  with  his  uniform  when 
he  returned  from  the  Mexican  War.  His  conduct 
was  so  irregular  and  his  income  so  uncertain  that 
it  had  been  a  relief  to  her  when  he  departed  for 
his  second  war.  From  it  he  had  brought  home 
a  broken  constitution,  a  maimed  body  and  con 
firmed  habits  of  shiftlessness  and  drunkenness. 
His  country  took  his  character  and  his  health  and 


26  THE  COST 

paid  him  in  exchange  a  pension  which  just  about 
kept  him  in  whisky  and  tobacco.  So  long  as  he 
was  alive  Mrs.  Trent  hated  him  as  vigorously  as 
her  Christianity  permitted.  When  he  was  safely 
in  his  grave  she  canonized  him ;  she  put  his  picture 
and  his  sword,  belt  and  epaulets  in  the  con 
spicuous  place  in  the  parlor;  she  used  his  record 
for  gallantry  to  get  herself  social  position  and  a 
place  of  honor  at  public  gatherings. 

Her  house  stood  back  from  the  highway  in  a 
grove  of  elms  and  walnuts.  Its  angularity  was 
relieved  by  a  porch  with  a  flat  roof  that  had  a 
railing  about  it  and  served  as  a  balcony  for  the 
second-story  lodgers.  There  were  broad  halls 
through  the  middle  of  the  house  down-stairs  and 
up.  Olivia  and  Pauline  had  the  three  large  rooms 
in  the  second  story  on  the  south  side.  They  used 
the  front  room  as  a  study  and  Pauline's  bedroom 
was  next  to  it. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  was  seated  at  the  study 
window  watching  a  cherry-red  sun  drop  through: 
the  purple  haze  of  the  autumn.  She  became 
conscious  that  some  one  was  on  the  balcony 
before  the  window  of  the  front  room  across  the 
hall.  She  leaned  so  that  she  could  see  without 
being  seen.  Sharp  against  the  darkenkie:  sky  was 


OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE  27 

the  profile  of  a  young  man.  Olivia  joined  her 
and  followed  her  glance.  The  profile  remained 
fixed  and  the  two  girls  watched  it,  fascinated. 
It  certainly  was  a  powerful  outline,  proud  and 
stern,  but  with  a  mouth  that  was  sweet  in  its 
kindliness  and  gentleness. 

"I  wonder  what  he's  thinking  about/'  said 
Olivia,  in  an  undertone — he  was  not  fifteen  feet 
from  them.  "I  suppose,  some  scheme  for  con 
quering  the  world." 

Most  of  Battle  Field's  youth  came  from  the 
farms  of  that  western  country,  the  young  men 
with  bodies  and  brains  that  were  strong  but 
awkward.  Almost  all  were  working  their  way 
through — as  were  not  a  few  of  the  women.  They 
felt  that  life  was  a  large,  serious  business  impa 
tiently  waiting  for  them  to  come  and  attend  to 
it  in  a  large,  serious  way  better  than  it  had  ever 
been  attended  to  before.  They  studied  hard ;  they 
practised  oratory  and  debating.  Their  talk  was 
of  history  and  philosophy,  religion  and  politics. 
They  slept  little;  they  thought — or  tried  to  think 
—even  more  than  they  talked. 

At  a  glance  this  man  was  one  of  them,  a  fine 
type. 

"He's     handsome,    isn't    he?"    said    Pauline. 


28  THE  COST 

"But — "  She  did  not  finish;  indeed  it  was  not 
clear  to  her  what  the  rest  of  her  protest  was.  He 
reminded  her  of  Dumont — there  was  the  same 
look  of  superiority,  of  the  "born  to  lead."  But  his 
face  seemed  to<  have  some  quality  which  Dumont's 
lacked — or  was  it  only  the  idealizing  effect  of 
the  open  sky  and  the  evening  light  ? 

When  the  bell  rang  for  supper  he  apparently 
did  not  hear  it.  The  two  girls  went  down  and 
had  talked  to  the  others  a  few  minutes  and  all 
had  seated  themselves  before  he  entered.  An  inch 
or  so  above  six  feet,  powerful  in  the  chest  and 
shoulders,  he  moved  with  a  large  grace  until  he 
became  self-conscious  or  approached  the,  by  com 
parison,  frail  pieces  of  furniture.  He  had  pene 
trating,  candid  eyes  that  looked  dark  in  the  gas 
light  but  were  steel-blue.  His  face  now  wore  the 
typical  western-American  expression — shrewd, 
easy-going  good  humor.  Mrs.  Trent,  intrenched 
in  state  behind  a  huge,  silver-plated  coffee-urn 
with  ivory-trimmed  faucet,  introduced  him — 
Mr.  Scarborough — to  Olivia,  to  Pauline,  to 
Sadie  Mclntosh,  to  Pierson  and  Howe  and  Thie- 
baud  (pronounced  Cay-bo).  Scarborough  sat 
directly  opposite  Olivia.  But  whenever  he  lifted 
his  eyes  from  his  plate  he  looked  at  Pauline,  who 


OLIVIA  TO  THE  RESCUE  29 

was  next  to  her.  When  she  caught  him  he  blushed 
and  stirred  in  his  chair  so  uneasily  that  it  creaked 
and  crackled;  and  his  normal  difficulties  with  his 
large  hands  and  the  small  knife  and  fork  were 
distressingly  increased. 

Pauline  was  disappointed  in  him — his  clothes 
were  ill-fitting  and  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
being  in  danger  of  bursting  from  them ;  his  hair 
was  too  long,  suggesting  a  shaggy,  tawny  mane; 
though  his  hands  were  well-shaped  they  had  the 
recent  scars  of  hard  manual  labor.  Thus,  when 
Olivia  spoke  enthusiastically  of  him  after  supper, 
she  made  no  reply.  She  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  the  reasons  for  her  lack  of  admir 
ation,  even  had  she  been  conscious  of  them. 

But  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  she  revised 
her  opinion  somewhat.  He  talked,  and  he  had  a 
remarkable  voice — clear,  musical,  with  a  quality 
which  made  it  seem  to  penetrate  through  all  the 
nerves  instead  of  through  the  auditory  nerve  only. 
Further,  he  talked  straight  to  Pauline,  without 
embarrassment  and  with  a  quaint,  satiric  humor. 
She  was  forgetting  for  the  moment  his  almost 
uncouth  hair  and  dress  when,  in  making  a  sweep 
ing  gesture,  he  upset  a  glass  of  water  and  sent  a 
plate  of  hot  bread  flying  from  the  waitress'  hand. 


30  THE  COST 

"He'd  do  well  in  the  open  air,"  thought  she, 
"but  he's  out  of  place  in  a  house." 

Still,  she  found  him  interesting  and  original. 
And  he  persistently  sought  her — his  persistence 
was  little  short  of  heroism  in  view  of  the  never- 
wholly-concealed  sufferings  which  the  contrast 
between  her  grace  and  style  and  his  lack  of  both 
caused  him. 

"He  looks  like  a  king  who  had  been  kidnapped 
as  a  child  and  brought  up  in  the  wilds,"  said 
Olivia.  "I  wonder  who  he  is." 

'Til  ask  him,"  replied  Pauline.  And  Olivia 
was  slyly  amused  by  her  cousin's  unconscious 
pride  in  her  power  with  this  large,  untamed 
person. 


III. 

AND  SCARBOROUGH. 

His  name  was  Hampden  Scarborough  and  he 
came  from  a  farm  about  twenty  miles  east  of 
Saint  X.  He  was  descended  from  men  who  had 
learned  to  hate  kings  in  Holland  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  had  learned  to  despise  them  in  England 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  had  learned  to  laugh 
at  them  in  America  in  the  eighteenth  century,  had 
learned  to  exalt  themselves  into  kings — the  kings 
of  the  new  democracy — in  the  free  West  in  the 
nineteenth  century. 

When  any  one  asked  his  father,  Bladen  Scar 
borough,  who  the  family  ancestors  were,  Bladen 
usually  did  not  answer  at  all.  It  was  his  habit 
thus  to  treat  a  question  he  did  not  fancy,  and, 
if  the  question  was  repeated,  to  supplement  si 
lence  with  a  piercing  look  from  under  his  aggres 
sive  eyebrows.  But  sometimes  he  would  answer 
it.  Once,  for  example,  he  looked  coldly  at  the 
man  who,  with  a  covert  sneer,  had  asked  it,  said, 
"You're  impudent,  sir.  You  insinuate  I'm  not 
enough  by  myself  to  command  your  considera- 

31 


32  THE  COST 

tion,"  and  struck  him  a  staggering  blow  across 
the  mouth.  Again — he  was  in  a  playful  mood 
that  day  and  the  questioner  was  a  woman — he 
replied,  "I'm  descended  from  murderers,  ma'am 
— murderers." 

And  in  a  sense  it  was  the  truth. 

In  1568  the  Scarboroughs  were  seated  obscure 
ly  in  an  east  county  of  England.  They  were 
tenant  farmers  on  the  estates  of  the  Earl  of  Ash- 
ford  and  had  been  strongly  infected  with  "level 
ing"  ideas  by  the  refugees  then  fleeing  to  England 
:o  escape  the  fury  of  continental  prince  and  priest. 
John  Scarborough  was  trudging  along  the  high 
way  with  his  sister  Kate.  On  horseback  came 
Aubrey  Walton,  youngest  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Ashford.  He  admired  the  rosy,  pretty  face  of 
Kate  Scarborough.  He  dismounted  and,  without 
so  much  as  a  glance  at  her  brother,  put  his  arm 
round  her.  John  snatched  her  free.  Young 
Walton,  all  amazement  and  wrath  at  the 
hind  who  did  not  appreciate  the  favor  he  was 
condescending  to  bestow  upon  a  humble  maiden, 
ripped  out  an  insult  and  drew  his  sword.  John 
wrenched  it  from  him  and  ran  it  through  his 
body. 

That  night,  with  four  gold  pieces  in  his  pocket, 


AND  SCARBOROUGH  33 

John  Scarborough  left  England  in  a  smuggler 
and  was  presently  fighting  Philip  of  Spain  in 
the  army  of  the  Dutch  people. 

In  1653  Zachariah  Scarborough,  great  grand 
son  of  the  preceding,  was  a  soldier  in  Cromwell's 
army.  On  the  night  of  April  twentieth  he 
was  in  an  ale-house  off  Fleet  Street  with  three 
brother  officers.  That  day  Cromwell  had  driven 
out  Parliament  and  had  dissolved  the  Council  of 
State.  Three  of  the  officers  were  of  Cromwell's 
party;  the  fourth,  Captain  Zachariah  Scar 
borough,  was  a  "leveler" — a  hater  of  kings,  a 
Dutch-bred  pioneer  of  Dutch-bred  democracy. 
The  discussion  began  hot — and  they  poured  ale 
on  it. 

"He's  a  tyrant!"  shouted  Zachariah  Scar 
borough,  bringing  his  huge  fist  down  on  the 
table  and  upsetting  a  mug.  "He  has  set  up  for 
king.  Down  with  all  kings,  say  I!  His  head 
must  come  off !" 

At  this  knives  were  drawn,  and  when  Zacha 
riah  Scarborough  staggered  into  the  darkness  of 
filthy  Fleet  Street  with  a  cut  down  his  cheek  from 
temple  to  jaw-bone,  his  knife  was  dripping  the 
life  of  a  cousin  of  Ireton's. 


34  THE  COST 

He  fled  to  the  Virginia  plantations  and  drifted 
thence  to  North  Carolina. 

His  great-grandson,  Gaston  Scarborough,  was 
one  of  Marion's  men  in  his  boyhood — a  fierce 
spirit  made  arrogant  by  isolated  freedom,  where 
every  man  of  character  owned  his  land  and  could 
conceive  of  no  superior  between  him  and  Al 
mighty  God.  One  autumn  day  in  1794  Gaston 
was  out  shooting  with  his  youngest  brother,  John, 
their  father's  favorite.  Gaston's  gun  was  caught 
by  a  creeper,  was  torn  from  him;  and  his  hand, 
reaching  for  it,  exploded  the  charge  into  his 
brother's  neck.  His  brother  fell  backward  into 
the  swamp  and  disappeared. 

Gaston  plunged  into  the  wilderness — to  Ten 
nessee,  to  Kentucky,  to  Indiana. 

"And  it's  my  turn,"  said  Hampden  Scar 
borough  as  he  ended  a  brief  recital  of  the  an 
cestral  murders  which  Pauline  had  drawn  from 
him — they  were  out  for  a  walk  together. 

"Your  turn?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes — I'm  the  great-grandson — the  only  one. 
It's  always  a  great-grandson." 

"You  do  look  dangerous,"  said  Pauline,  and 
the  smile  and  the  glance  she  sent  with  the  words 


AND  SCARBOROUGH  35 

might  have  been  misunderstood  by  a  young  man 
entertaining  the  ideas  which  were  then  filling  that 
young  man's  brain. 

Again,  he  told  her  how  he  had  been  sent  to 
college — she  was  always  leading  him  to  talk  of 
himself,  and  her  imagination  more  than  supplied 
that  which  his  unaffected  modesty,  sometimes  de 
liberately,  more  often  unconsciously,  kept  out  of 
his  stories. 

Ever  since  he  could  remember,  his  strongest 
passion  had  been  for  books,  for  reading.  Before 
he  was  born  the  wilderness  was  subdued  and  the 
cruel  toil  of  his  parents'  early  life  was  mitigated 
by  the  growth  of  towns,  the  spread  of  civilization. 
There  was  a  chance  for  some  leisure,  for  the 
higher  gratification  of  the  intense  American  pas 
sion  for  education.  A  small  library  had  sprung 
up  in  one  corner  of  the  general  room  of  the  old 
farm-house — from  the  seeds  of  a  Bible,  an  al 
manac,  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Baxter's  Saint's 
Rest  and  a  Government  report  on  cattle*  But  the 
art  collection  had  stood  still  for  years — a  fac 
simile  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  an 
other  of  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  pictures 
of  Washington,  Lincoln  and  Napoleon,  the  last 


36  THE  COST 

held  in  that  household  second  only  to  Washing 
ton  in  all  history  as  a  "leveler." 

The  only  daughter,  Arabella,  had  been  sent  to 
boarding-school  in  Cincinnati.  She  married  a 
rich  man,  lived  in  the  city  and,  under  the  inspira 
tion  of  English  novels  and  the  tutelage  of  a 
woman  friend  who  visited  in  New  York  and 
often  went  abroad,  was  developing  ideas  of  fam 
ily  and  class  and  rank.  She  talked  feelingly  of 
the  "lower  classes"  and  of  the  duty  of  the  "upper 
class"  toward  them.  Her  "goings-on"  created 
an  acid  prejudice  against  higher  education  in  her 
father's  mind.  As  she  was  unfolding  to  him  a 
plan  for  sending  Hampden  to  Harvard  he  inter 
rupted  with,  "No  more  idiots  in  my  family  at 
my  expense,"  and  started  out  to  feed  the  pigs.  The 
best  terms  Hampden's  mother  could  make  were 
that  he  should  not  be  disinherited  and  cast  off  if 
he  went  to  Battle  Field  and  paid  his  own  way. 

He  did  not  tell  Pauline  all  of  this,  nor  did  he 
repeat  to  her  the  conversation  between  himself 
and  his  father  a  few  days  before  he  left  home. 

"Is  'Bella  going  to  pay  your  way  through?" 
asked  his  father,  looking  at  him  severely — but 
he  looked  severely  at  every  one  except  Hamp 
den's  gentle-voiced  mother. 


AND  SCARBOROUGH  37/ 

"No,  sir."    The  son's  voice  was  clear. 

"Is  your  mother?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Have  you  got  money  put  by?" 

"Four  hundred  dollars." 

"Is  that  enough?" 

"It'll  give  me  time  for  a  long  look  around." 

The  old  man  drew  a  big,  rusty  pocketboolc 
from  the  inside  pocket  of  the  old-fashioned,  flow 
ered-velvet  waistcoat  he  wore  even  when  he  fed 
the  pigs.  He  counted  out  upon  his  knee  ten  one- 
hundred-dollar  bills.  He  held  them  toward  his 
son.  "That'll  have  to  do  you,"  he  said.  "That's 
all  you'll  get." 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Hampden.  "I  wish 
no  favors  from  anybody." 

"You've  earned  it  over  and  above  your  keep," 
retorted  his  father.  "It  belongs  to  you." 

"If  I  need  it  I'll  send  for  it,"  said  Hampden, 
that  being  the  easiest  way  quickly  to  end  the 
matter. 

But  he  did  tell  Pauline  that  he  purposed  to  pay 
his  own  way  through  college. 

"My  father  has  a  notion,"  said  he,  "that  the 
things  one  works  for  and  earns  are  the  only 
things  worth  having.  And  I  think  one  can't  begin 


38  THE  COST 

to  act  on  that  notion  too  early.  If  one  is  trying 
to  get  an  education,  why  not  an  all-round  educa 
tion,  instead  of  only  lessons  out  of  books  ?" 

From  that  moment  Pauline  ceased  to  regard 
dress  or  any  other  external  feature  as  a  factor  in 
her  estimate  of  Hampden  Scarborough. 

"But  your  plan  might  make  a  man  too  late  in 
getting  a  start — some  men,  at  least,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"A  start— for  what?"  he  asked. 

"For  fame  or  fortune  or  success  of  any  kind." 

Scarborough's  eyes,  fixed  on  the  distance,  had 
a  curious  look  in  them — he  was  again  exactly 
like  that  first  view  she  had  had  of  him. 

"But  suppose  one  isn't  after  any  of  those 
things,"  he  said.  "Suppose  he  thinks  of  life  as 
simply  an  opportunity  for  self-development.  He 
starts  at  it  when  he's  born,  and  the  more  of  it 
he  does  the  more  he  has  to  do.  And — he  can't 
possibly  fail,  and  every  moment  is  a  triumph — 

and "  He  came  back  from  his  excursion  and 

smiled  apologetically  at  her. 

But  she  was  evidently  interested. 

"Don't  you  think  a  man  ought  to  have  ambi 
tion  ?"  she  asked.  She  was  thinking  of  her  lover 


AND  SCARBOROUGH  39 

and  his  audacious  schemes  for  making  himself 
powerful. 

"Oh — a  man  is  what  he  is.  Ambition  means 
so  many  different  things." 

"But  shouldn't  you  like  to  be  rich  and  famous 
and— all  that?" 

"It  depends- — "  Scarborough  felt  that  if  he 
said  what  was  in  his  mind  it  might  sound  like 
cant.  So  he  changed  the  subject.  "Just  now 
my  ambition  is  to  get  off  that  zoology  condition." 


IV. 

A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH. 

But  in  the  first  week  of  her  second  month 
Pauline's  interest  in  her  surroundings  vanished. 
She  was  corresponding  with  Jennie  Atwater  and 
Jennie  began  to  write  of  Dumont — he  had  re 
turned  to  Saint  X;  Caroline  Sylvester,  of  Cleve 
land,  was  visiting  his  mother;  it  was  all  but  cer 
tain  that  Jack  and  Caroline  would  marry.  "Her 
people  want  it,"  Jennie  went  on — she  pretended 
to  believe  that  Jack  and  Pauline  had  given  each 
the  other  up — "and  Jack's  father  is  determined 
on  it.  They're  together  morning,  noon  and  even 
ing.  She's  really  very  swell,  though  7  don't 
think  she's  such  a  raving  beauty."  Following 
this  came  the  Saint  X  News-Bulletin  with  a  broad 
hint  that  the  engagement  was  about  to  be  an 
nounced. 

"It's  ridiculously  false,"  said  Pauline  to  her 
self;  but  she  tossed  for  hours  each  night,  trying 
to  soothe  the  sick  pain  in  her  heart.  And  while 
she  scouted  the  possibility  of  losing  him,  she  was 
for  the  first  time  entertaining  it — a  cloud  in  the 

40 


A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH  41 

great  horizon  of  her  faith  in  the  future;  a  small 
cloud,  but  black  and  bold  against  the  blue.  And 
she  had  no  suspicion  that  he  had  returned  from 
Chicago  deliberately  to  raise  that  cloud. 

A  few  days  later  another  letter  from  Jennie, 
full  of  gossip  about  Jack  and  Caroline,  a  News- 
Bulletin  with  a  long  article  about  Caroline,  end 
ing  with  an  even  broader  hint  of  her  approaching 
marriage — and  Dumont  sent  Pauline  a  note  from 
the  hotel  in  Villeneuve,  five  miles  from  Battle 
Field:  "I  must  see  you.  Do  not  deny  me.  It 
means  everything  to  both  of  us — what  I  want  to 
say  to  you."  And  he  asked  her  to  meet  him  in 
the  little  park  in  Battle  Field  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  where  no  one  but  the  factory  hands  and 
their  families  ever  went,  and  they  only  in  the 
evenings.  The  hour  he  fixed  was  ten  the  next 
morning,  and  she  "cut"  ancient  history  and  was 
there.  As  he  advanced  to  meet  her  she  thought 
she  had  never  before  appreciated  how  handsome 
he  was,  how  distinguished-looking — perfectly  her 
ideal  of  what  a  man  should  be,  especially  in  that 
important,  and  at  Battle  Field  neglected,  matter, 
dress. 

She  was  without  practice  in  indirection,  but 
she  successfully  hid  her  jealousy  and  her  fears, 


42  THE  COST 

though  his  manner  was  making  their  taunts  and 
threats  desperately  real.  He  seemed  depressed 
and  gloomy ;  he  would  not  look  at  her ;  he  shook 
hands  with  her  almost  coldly,  though  they  had  not 
seen  each  other  for  weeks,  had  not  talked  together 
for  months.  She  felt  faint,  and  her  thoughts  were 
like  flocks  of  circling,  croaking  crows. 

"Polly,"  he  began,  when  they  were  in  the  se 
cluded  corner  of  the  park,  "father  wants  me  to  get 
married.  He's  in  a  rage  at  your  father  for  treat 
ing  me  so  harshly.  He  wants  me  to  marry  a  girl 
who's  visiting  us.  He's  always  at  me  about  it, 
making  all  sorts  of  promises  and  threats.  Her 
father's  in  the  same  business  that  we  are, 
and " 

He  glanced  at  her  to  note  the  effect  of  his 
words.  She  had  drawn  her  tall  figure  to  its  full 
height,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes 
curiously  bright.  He  had  stabbed  straight  and 
deep  into  the  heart  of  her  weakness,  but  also  into 
the  heart  of  her  pride. 

The  only  effect  of  his  thrust  that  was  visible  to 
him  put  him  in  a  panic.  "Don't — please  don't 
look  that  way,  Polly,"  he  went  on  hastily.  "You 
don't  see  what  I'm  driving  at  yet.  I  didn't  mean 
that  I'd  marry  her,  or  think  of  it.  There  isn't 


A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH  43 

anybody  but  you.  There  couldn't  be — you  know 
that."  * 

"Why  did  you  tell  me,  then?"  she  asked 
haughtily. 

"Because — I  had  to  begin  somewhere.  Polly, 
I'm  going  away,  going  abroad.  And  I'm  not  to 
see  you  for — for  I  don't  know  how  long — and 
— wa  must  be  married !" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  daze. 

"We  can  cross  on  the  ferry  at  half-past  ten," 
he  went  on.  "You  see  that  house — the  white 
one?"  He  pointed  to  the  other  bank  of  the  river 
where  a  white  cottage  shrank  among  the  trees  not 
far  from  a  little  church.  "Mr.  Barker  lives  there 
— you  must  have  heard  of  him.  He's  married 
scores  and  hundreds  of  couples  from  this  side. 
And  we  can  be  back  here  at  half-past  eleven — 
twelve  at  the  latest." 

She  shook  her  head — expressed,  not  determina 
tion,  only  doubt. 

"I  can't,  Jack,"  she  said.    "They " 

"Then  you  aren't  certain  you're  ever  going  to 
snarry  me,"  he  interrupted  bitterly.  "You  don't 
mean  what  you  promised  me.  You  care  more 
for  them  than  you  do  for  me.  You  don't  really 
eare  for  me  at  all." 


$4  THE  COST 

"You  don't  believe  that,"  she  protested,  her 
eyes  and  her  mind  on  the  little  white  cottage. 
"You  couldn't — you  know  me  too  well." 

"Then  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  get 
married.  Don't  we  belong  to  each  other  now? 
Why  should  we  refuse  to  stand  up  and  say  so?" 

That  seemed  unanswerable — a  perfect  excuse 
for  doing  what  she  wished  to  do.  For  the  little 
white  cottage  fascinated  her — how  she  did  long 
to  be  sure  of  him !  And  she  felt  so  free,  so  abso 
lutely  her  own  mistress  in  these  new  surround 
ings,  where  no  one  attempted  to  exercise  author 
ity  over  another. 

"I  must  feel  sure  of  you,  Pauline.  Sometimes 
everything  seems  to  be  against  me,  and  I  even 
doubt  you.  And — that's  when  the  temptations 
pull  hardest.  If  we  were  married  it'd  all  be  dif 
ferent." 

Yes,  it  would  be  different.  And  he  would  be 
securely  hers,  with  her  mind  at  rest  instead  of 
harassed  as  it  would  be  if  she  let  him  go  so  far 
away,  free.  And  where  was  the  harm  in  merely 
repeating  before  a  preacher  the  promise  that  now 
bound  them  both?  She  looked  at  him  and  he  at 
her. 


A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH  49 

"You  don't  put  any  others  before  me,  do  you, 
3ear?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Jack — no  one.    I  belong  to  you." 

"Come!"  he  pleaded,  and  they  went  down  to 
the  boat.  She  seemed  to  herself  to  be  in  a  dream 
— in  a  trance. 

As  she  walked  beside  him  along  the  country 
road  on  the  other  shore  a  voice  was  ringing  in 
her  ears:  "Don't!  Don't!  Ask  Olivia's  advice 
first!"  But  she  walked  on,  her  will  suspended, 
substituted  for  it  his  will  and  her  jealousy  and 
her  fears  of  his  yielding  to  the  urgings  of  his 
father  and  the  blandishments  of  "that  Cleveland 
girl."  He  said  little  but  kept  close  to  her,  watch 
ing  her  narrowly,  touching  her  tenderly  now  and 
then. 

The  Reverend  Josiah  Barker  was  waiting  for 
them — an  oily  smirk  on  a  face  smooth  save  where 
a  thin  fringe  of  white  whiskers  dangled  from  his 
jaw-bone,  ear  to  ear;  fat,  damp  hands  rubbing  in 
anticipation  of  the  large  fee  that  was  to  repay 
him  for  celebrating  the  marriage  and  for  keep 
ing  quiet  about  it  afterward.  At  the  proper  place 
in  the  brief  ceremony  Dumont,  with  a  sly  smile 
at  Pauline  which  she  faintly  returned,  produced 
the  ring — he  had  bought  it  at  Saint  X  a  week 


46  THE  COST 

before  and  so  had  started  a  rumor  that  he  and 
Caroline  Sylvester  were  to  be  married  in  haste. 
He  held  Pauline's  hand  firmly  as  he  put  the  ring 
on  her  finger — he  was  significantly  cool  and  calm 
for  his  age  and  for  the  circumstances.  She  was 
trembling  violently,  was  pale  and  wan.  The  ring 
burned  into  her  flesh. 

"Whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder,"  ended  Barker,  with  pompous 
solemnity. 

Dumont  kissed  her — her  cheek  was  cold  and 
at  the  touch  of  his  lips  she  shuddered. 

"Don't  be  afraid/'  he  said  in  a  low  voice  that 
was  perfectly  steady. 

They  went  out  and  along  the  sunny  road  in 
silence.  "Whom  God  hath  joined/'  the  voice  was 
now  dinning  into  her  ears.  And  she  was  saying 
to  herself,  "Has  God  joined  us?  If  so,  why  do  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime?"  She  looked 
guiltily  at  him — she  felt  no  thrill  of  pride  or  love 
at  the  thought  that  he  was  her  husband,  she  his 
wife.  And  into  her  mind  poured  all  her  father's 
condemnations  of  him,  with  a  vague  menacing 
fear  riding  the  crest  of  the  flood. 

"You're  sorry  you've  done  it  ?"  he  said  sullenly. 

She  did  not  answer. 


A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH  ±1 

"Well,  it's  done,"  he  went  on,  "and  it  can't  be 
undone.  And  I've  got  you,  Polly,  in  spite  of 
them.  They  might  have  known  better  than  to  try 
to  keep  me  from  getting  what  I  wanted.  I  always 
did,  and  I  always  shall !" 

She  looked  at  him  startled,  then  hastily  looked 
away.  Even  more  than  his  words  and  his  tone, 
she  disliked  his  eyes — gloating,  triumphant.  But 
not  until  she  was  years  more  experienced  did  she 
study  that  never-forgotten  expression,  study  it 
as  a  whole — words,  tone,  look.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  did  she  know  that  she  had  instinctively 
shrunk  because  he  had  laid  bare  his  base  and  all 
but  loveless  motive  in  marrying  her. 

"And,"  he  added,  "I'll  force  father  to  give  me 
a  big  interest  in  the  business  very  soon.  Then— 
we'll  announce  it." 

Announce  it?  Announce  what?  "Why,  I'm  a 
married  woman,"  she  thought,  and  she  stumbled 
and  almost  fell.  The  way  danced  before  her  eyes, 
all  spotted  with  black.  She  was  just  able  to  walk 
aboard  the  boat  and  drop  into  a  seat. 

He  sat  beside  her,  took  her  hand  and  bent  over 
it;  as  he  kissed  it  a  tear  fell  on  it.  He  looked 
at  her  and  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  swimming. 
A  sob  surged  into  her  throat,  but  she  choked  it 


48  THE  COST 

back.  "Jack !"  she  murmured,  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  handkerchief. 

When  they  looked  each  at  the  other  both  smiled 
— her  foreboding  had  retreated  to  the  back 
ground.  She  began  to  turn  the  ring  round  and 
round  upon  her  finger. 

"Mrs.  John  Dumont,"  she  said.  "Doesn't  it 
sound  queer?"  And  she  gazed  dreamily  away 
toward  the  ranges  of  hills  between  which  the 
river  danced  and  sparkled  as  it  journeyed  west 
ward..  When  she  again  became  conscious  of  her 
immediate  surroundings — other  than  Dumont — 
she  saw  a  deck-hand  looking  at  her  with  a  friendly 
grin. 

Instantly  she  covered  the  ring  with  her  hand 
and  handkerchief.  "But  I  mustn't  wear  it,"  she 
said  to  Dumont. 

"No — not  on  your  finger."  He  laughed  and 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  slender  gold  chain.  "But 
you  might  wear  it  on  this,  round  your  neck.  It'll 
help  to  remind  you  that  you  don't  belong  to  your 
self  any  more,  but  to  me." 

She  took  the  chain — she  was  coloring  in  a 
most  becoming  way — and  hid  it  and  the  ring  in 
her  bosom.  Then  she  drew  off  a  narrow  hoop  of 


"  MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT,"  SHE  SAID,       "  DOESN'T  IT  SOUND  QUEER?' 


A  DUMONT  TRIUMPH  49 

gold  with  a  small  setting*  and  pushed  it  on  his  big 
little  finger. 

"And  that,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  bewitching 
look,  "may  help  you  not  to  forget  that  you  belong 
to  me." 

She  left  the  ferry  in  advance  of  him  and  faced 
Olivia  just  in  time  for  them  to  go  down  together 
to  the  half-past  twelve  o'clock  dinner. 


V. 

FOUR  FRIENDS. 

As  Mrs.  Trent's  was  the  best  board  in  Battle 
Field  there  were  more  applicants  than  she  could 
make  places  for  at  her  one  table.  In  the  second 
week  of  the  term  she  put  a  small  table  in  the 
alcove  of  the  dining-room  and  gave  it  to  her 
"star"  boarders — Pierson,  Olivia  and  Pauline. 
They  invited  Scarborough  to  take  the  fourth 
place.  Not  only  did  Pierson  sit  opposite  Olivia 
and  Scarborough  opposite  Pauline  three  times  a 
day  in  circumstances  which  make  for  intimacy, 
but  also  Olivia  and  Pierson  studied  together  in 
his  sitting-room  and  Pauline  and  Scarborough  in 
her  sitting-room  for  several  hours  three  or  four 
times  a  week.  Olivia  and  Pierson  were  sopho 
mores.  Pauline  and  Scarborough  were  freshmen ; 
also,  they  happened  to  have  the  same  three  "senior 
prep"  conditions  to  "work  off" — Latin,  zoology 
and  mathematics. 

Such  intimacies  as  these  were  the  matter-of- 
course  at  Battle  Field.  They  were  usually  brief 
and  strenuous.  A  young  man  and  a  young 

60 


FOUR  FRIENDS  51 

woman  would  be  seen  together  constantly,  would 
fall  in  love,  would  come  to  know  each  the  other 
thoroughly.  Then,  with  the  mind  and  character 
and  looks  and  moods  of  each  fully  revealed  to 
the  other,  they  would  drift  or  fly  in  opposite  direc 
tions,  wholly  disillusioned.  Occasionally  they 
found  that  they  were  really  congenial,  and  either 
love  remained  or  a  cordial  friendship  sprang  up. 
The  modes  of  thought,  inconceivable  to  Euro 
peans  or  Europeanized  Americans,  made  catas 
trophe  all  but  impossible. 

It  was  through  the  girls  that  Scarborough  got 
his  invitation  to  the  alcove  table.  There  he  came 
to  know  Pierson  and  to  like  him.  One  evening 
he  went  into  Pierson's  rooms — the  suite  under 
Olivia  and  Pauline's.  He  had  never  seen — but 
had  dreamed  of — such  a  luxurious  bachelor  inter 
ior.  Pierson's  father  had  insisted  that  his  son 
must  go  to  the  college  where  forty  years  before 
he  had  split  wood  and  lighted  fires  and  swept 
corridors  to  earn  two  years  of  higher  education. 
Pierson's  mother,  defeated  in  her  wish  that  her 
son  should  go  East  to  college,  had  tried  to  miti 
gate  the  rigors  of  Battle  Field's  primitive  sim 
plicity  by  herself  fitting  up  his  quarters.  And  she 
made  them  the  show-rooms  of  the  college. 


53  THE  COST 

"Now  let's  see  what  can  be  done  for  you," 
said  Pierson,  with  the  superiority  of  a  whole 
year's  experience  where  Scarborough  was  a 
beginner.  "I'll  put  you  in  the  Sigma  Alpha  fra 
ternity  for  one  thing.  It's  the  best  here." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  fraternities," 
Scarborough  said.  "What  are  they  for?" 

"Oh,  everybody  that  is  anybody  belongs  to  ai 
fraternity.  There  are  about  a  dozen  of  them 
here,  and  among  them  they  get  all  the  men  with 
any  claim  to  recognition.  Just  now,  we  lean 
rather  toward  taking  in  the  fellows  who've  been 
well  brought  up." 

"Does  everybody  belong  to  a  fraternity?" 

"Lord,  no!  Two-thirds  don't  belong.  The 
fellows  outside  are  called  'barbs' — that  is,  barbar 
ians;  we  on  the  inside  are  Greeks.  Though,  I 
must  say,  very  few  of  us  are  Athenians  and  most 
of  us  are  the  rankest  Macedonians.  But  the  worst 
Greeks  are  better  than  the  best  barbs.  They're 
the  rummest  lot  of  scrubs  you  ever  saw — stupid 
drudges  who  live  round  in  all  sorts  of  holes  and 
don't  amount  to  anything.  The  brush  of  the 
backwoods." 

"Oh,  yes — mm — I  see."  Scarborough  was 
looking  uncomfortable. 


FOUR  FRIENDS  53 

"The  Sigma  Alphas'll  take  you  in  next  Satur 
day,"  said  Pierson.  "They  do  as  I  say,  between 
ourselves." 

"I'm  ever  so  much  obliged,  but "  Scar 
borough  was  red  and  began  to  stammer.  "You 
see— I— it " 

"What's  the  matter?  Expense?  Don't  let  that 
bother  you.  The  cost's  nothing  at  all,  and  the 
membership  is  absolutely  necessary  to  your  posi 
tion." 

"Yes — a  matter  of  expense."  Scarborough  was 
in  control  of  himself  now.  "But  not  precisely  the 
kind  of  expense  you  mean.  No — I  can't  join. 
I'd  rather  not  explain.  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged, 
but  really  I  can't." 

"As  you  please."  Pierson  was  offended.  "But 
I  warn  you,  you've  got  to  belong  to  one  or  the 
other  of  these  fraternities  or  you'll  be  cut  off  from 
everything.  And  you  oughtn't  to  miss  the  chance 
to  join  the  best." 

"I  see  I've  offended  you."  Scarborough  spoke 
regretfully.  "Please  don't  think  I'm  not  appre 
ciating  your  kindness.  But — I've  made  a  sort  of 
agreement  with  myself  never  to  join  anything 
that  isn't  organized  for  a  general  purpose  and 


54  THE  COST 

that  won't  admit  anybody  who  has  that  purpose, 
too." 

Pierson  thought  on  this  for  a  moment.  "Par 
don  me  for  saying  so,  but  that's  nonsense.  You 
can't  afford  to  stand  alone.  It'll  make  everything 
harder  for  you — many  things  impossible.  You've 
got  to  yield  to  the  prejudices  of  people  in  these 
matters.  Why,  even  the  barbs  have  no  use  for 
each  other  and  look  up  to  us.  When  we  have  an 
election  in  the  Literary  Society  I  can  control  more 
barb  votes  than  any  one  else  in  college.  And  the 
reason  is — well,  you  can  imagine."  (Mr.  Pierson 
was  only  twenty  years  old  when  he  made  that 
speech.) 

"It  doesn't  disturb  me  to  think  of  myself  as 
alone."  The  strong  lines  in  Scarborough's  face 
were  in  evidence.  "But  it  would  disturb  me  if  I 
were  propped  up  and  weren't  sure  I  could  stand 
alone.  I'm  afraid  to  lean  on  any  one  or  any 
thing — my  prop  might  give  way.  And  I  don't 
want  any  friends  or  any  associates  who  value  me 
for  any  other  reason  than  what  I  myself  am.  I 
purpose  never  to  'belong'  to  anything  or  any 
body." 

Pierson  laughed.    "Do  as  you  please,"  he  said. 


FOUR  FRIENDS  55 

"I'd  like  to  myself  if  it  wasn't  such  an  awful  lot 
of  trouble!" 

"Not  in  the  end,"  replied  Scarborough. 

"Oh,  bother  the  end.  To-day's  good  enough 
for  me." 

"You'd  better  not  let  Miss  Shrewsbury  hear 
you  say  that,"  said  Scarborough,  his  eyes  mock 
ing. 

Pierson  grew  serious  at  once.  "Splendid  girl, 
isn't  she?"  She  happened  to  be  the  first  he  had 
known  at  all  well  who  hadn't  agreed  with  him  m 
everything  he  said,  hadn't  shown  the  greatest 
anxiety  to  please  him  and  hadn't  practically 
thrown  herself  at  his  head.  His  combination  of 
riches,  good  looks,  an  easy-going  disposition  and 
cleverness  had  so  agitated  those  who  had  inter' 
ested  him  theretofore  that  they  had  overreached 
themselves.  Besides,  his  mother  had  been  subtly 
watchful. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  assented  Scarborough,  heartily 
but  not  with  enthusiasm — he  always  thought  of 
Olivia  as  Pauline's  cousin. 

The  four  had  arranged  to  go  together  to  Indian 
Rock  on  the  following  Sunday.  When  the  day 
came  Olivia  was  not  well;  Pierson  went  to  a 
poker  game  at  his  fraternity  house;  Pauline  and 


56  THE  COST 

Scarborough  walked  alone.  As  she  went  through 
the  woods  beside  him  she  was  thinking  so 
intensely  that  she  could  not  talk.  But  he  was  not 
disturbed  by  her  silence — was  it  not  enough  to 
be  near  her,  alone  with  her,  free  to  look  at  her,  so 
graceful  and  beautiful,  so  tasteful  in  dress,  in 
every  outward  way  what  he  thought  a  woman 
ought  to  be?  Presently  she  roused  herself  and 
began  a  remark  that  was  obviously  mere  polite 
ness. 

He  interrupted  her.  "Don't  mind  me.  Go  on 
with  your  thinking — unless  it's  something  you 
can  say." 

She  gave  him  a  quizzical,  baffling  smile.  "How 
it  would  startle  you  if  I  did!"  she  said.  "But 
— I  shan't.  And" — she  frowned  impatiently 
— "there's  no  use  in  thinking  about  it.  It's  all 
in  the  future." 

"And  one  can't  control  the  future." 

"Yes,  indeed — one  can,"  she  protested. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how.  Are  you  sure  you 
don't  mean  you  could  so  arrange  matters  that  the 
future  would  control  you  ?  Anybody  can  surren^ 
der  to  the  future  and  give  it  hostages.  But  that's 
not  controlling,  is  it?" 

"Certainly  it  is — if  you  give  the  hostages  in 


FOUR  FRIENDS  5? 

exchange  for  what  you  want."  And  she  looked 
triumphant 

"But  how  do  you  know  what  you'll  want  in 
the  future?  The  most  I  can  say  is  that  I  know  a 
few  things  I  shan't  want." 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  be  of  that  disposition,"  she 
said. 

"But  I'm  afraid  you  are,  whether  you  like  it  or 
not."  Scarborough  was  half-serious,  half  in  jest. 
"Are  you  the  same  person  you  were  a  month 
ago?" 

Pauline  glanced  away.  "What  do  you  mean  ?" 
she  asked. 

"I  mean  in  thought — in  feeling." 

"Yes — and  no,"  she  replied  presently,  when  she 
had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  chance  knock 
at  the  very  door  of  her  secret.  "My  coming  here 
has  made  a  sort  of  revolution  in  me  already.  I 
believe  I've  a  more — more  grown-up  way  of  look 
ing  at  things.  And  I've  been  getting  into  the 
habit  of  thinking — and — and  acting — for  my 
self." 

"That's  a  dangerous  habit  to  form — in  a 
hurry,"  said  Scarborough.  "One  oughtn't  to  try 
to  swim  a  wide  river  just  after  he's  had  his  first 
lesson  in  swimming." 


58  THE  COST 

Pauline,  for  no  apparent  reason,  flushed  crim* 
son  and  gave  him  a  nervous  look — it  almost 
seemed  a  look  of  fright. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "we  were  talking  of  the 
change  in  you.  If  you've  changed  so  much  in 
thirty  days,  or,  say,  in  sixty-seven  days — you've 
been  here  that  long,  I  believe — think  of  your 
whole  life.  The  broader  your  mind  and  your  life 
become,  the  less  certain  you'll  be  what  sort  of 
person  to-morrow  will  find  you.  It  seems  to  me 
— I  know  that,  for  myself,  I'm  determined  to 
keep  the  future  clear.  I'll  never  tie  myself  to 
the  past/' 

"But  there  are  some  things  one  must  anchor 
fast  to."  Pauline  was  looking  as  if  Scarborough 
were  trying  to  turn  her  adrift  in  an  open  boat  on 
a  lonely  sea.  "There  are — friends.  You  wouldn't 
desert  your  friends,  would  you?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it  if  they  insisted  on  deserting 
me.  I'd  keep  them  if  their  way  was  mine.  If  it 
wasn't — they'd  give  me  up." 

"But  if  you  were — were — married?" 

Scarborough  became  intensely  self-conscious. 

"Well— I  don't  know— that  is "  He  paused, 

went  on:  "I  shouldn't  marry  until  I  was  sure — 
her  way  and  mine  were  the  same." 


FOUR  FRIENDS  59 

"The  right  sort  of  woman  makes  her  husband's 
way  hers,"  said  she. 

"Does  she?  I  don't  know  much  about  women. 
But  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  kind  of 
woman  I'd  admire  would  be  one  who  had  her 
own  ideals  and  ideas  of  life — and  that — if — if  she 
liked  me,  it  would  be  because  we  suited  each  other. 
You  wouldn't  want  to  be — like  those  princesses 
that  are  brought  up  without  any  beliefs  of  any 
sort  so  that  they  can  accept  the  beliefs  of  the 
kingdom  of  the  man  they  happen  to  marry?" 

Pauline  laughed.  "I  couldn't,  even  if  I 
wished,"  she  said. 

"I  should  say  not !"  he  echoed,  as  if  the  idea  in 
connection  with  such  an  indelibly  distinct  young 
woman  were  preposterous. 

"But  you  have  such  a  queer  way  of  expressing 
yourself.  At  first  I  thought  you  were  talking  of 
upsetting  everything." 

"I  ?  Mercy,  no.  I've  no  idea  of  upsetting  any* 
thing.  I'm  only  hoping  I  can  help  straighten  a 
few  things  that  have  been  tumbled  over  or  turn 
ed  upside  down." 

Gradually,  as  they  walked  and  talked,  her  own 
affairs — Dumont's  and  hers — retreated  to  the 
background  and  she  gave  Scarborough  her  whole 


60  THE  COST 

attention.  Even  in  those  days — he  was  then 
twenty-three — his  personality  usually  dominated 
whomever  he  was  with.  It  was  not  his  size  or 
appearance  of  strength ;  it  was  not  any  compulsion 
of  manner;  it  was  not  even  what  he  said  or  the 
way  he  said  it.  All  of  these — and  his  voice — 
contributed ;  but  the  real  secret  of  his  power  was 
that  subtile  magnetic  something  which  we  try  to 
fix — and  fail — when  we  say  "charm." 

He  attracted  Pauline  chiefly  because  he  had  a 
way  of  noting  the  little  things — matters  of  dress, 
the  flowers,  colors  in  the  sky  or  the  landscape,  the 
uncommon,  especially  the  amusing,  details  of  per 
sonality — and  of  connecting  these  trifles  in  unex 
pected  ways  with  the  large  aspects  of  things.  He 
saw  the  mystery  of  the  universe  in  the  contour 
of  a  leaf ;  he  saw  the  secret  of  a  professor's  char 
acter  in  the  way  he  had  built  out  his  whiskers  to 
hide  an  absolute  lack  of  chin  and  to  give  the 
impression  that  a  formidable  chin  was  there.  He 
told  her  stories  of  life  on  his  father's  farm  that 
made  her  laugh,  other  stories  that  made  her  feel 
like  crying.  And — he  brought  out  the  best  there 
was  in  her.  She  was  presently  talking  of  the 
things  about  which  she  had  always  been  reticent 
— the  real  thoughts  of  her  mind,  those  she  had 


FOUR  FRIENDS  61 

suppressed  because  she  had  had  no  sympathetic 
listener,  those  she  looked  forward  to  talking  over 
with  Dumont  in  that  happy  time  when  they  would 
be  together  and  would  renew  the  intimacy  inter 
rupted  since  their  High  School  days. 

When  she  burst  in  upon  Olivia  her  eyes  were 
sparkling  and  her  cheeks  glowing.  "The  air  was 
glorious,"  she  said,  "and  Mr.  Scarborough  is  so 
interesting." 

And  Olivia  said  to  herself:  "In  spite  of  his 
tight  clothes  he  may  cure  her  of  that  worthless 
Dumont." 


VI. 

"LIKE  HIS  FATHER/* 

Scarborough  soon  lifted  himself  high  above  the 
throng,  and  was  marked  by  faculty  and  students 
as  a  man  worth  watching.  The  manner  of  this 
achievement  was  one  of  those  forecasts  of  the 
future  with  which  youth  bristles  for  those  who 
take  the  trouble  to  watch  it. 

Although  Pierson  was  only  a  sophomore  he 
was  the  political  as  well  as  the  social  leader  of 
his  fraternity.  Envy  said  that  the  Sigma  Alphas 
truckled  to  his  wealth ;  perhaps  the  exacter  truth 
was  that  his  wealth  forced  an  earlier  recognition 
of  his  real  capacity.  His  position  as  leader  made 
him  manager  of  the  Sigma  Alpha  combination 
of  fraternities  and  barbs  which  for  six  years 
had  dominated  the  Washington  and  Jefferson  Lit 
erary  Society.  The  barbs  had  always  voted  hum 
bly  with  the  aristocratic  Sigma  Alphas;  so  Pier- 
son's  political  leadership  apparently  had  no  oner 
ous  duties  attached  to  it — and  he  was  not  the  man 
to  make  work  for  himself. 

As  the  annual  election  approached  he  heard 

62 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  63 

rumors  of  barb  disaffection,  of  threatened  barb 
revolt.  Vance,  his  barb  lieutenant,  reassured  him. 

"Always  a  few  kickers,"  said  Vance,  "and  they 
make  a  lot  of  noise.  But  they  won't  draw  off 
twenty  votes."  Pierson  'made  himself  easy — 
there  was  no  danger  of  one  of  those  hard-fought 
contests  which  In  past  years  had  developed  at 
Battle  Field  many  of  Indiana's  adroit  political 
leaders. 

On  election  night  he  felt  important  and  power 
ful  as  he  sat  in  the  front  row  among  the  arrogant 
Sigma  Alphas,  at  the  head  of  his  forces  massed 
in  the  left  side  of  the  hall.  He  had  insisted  on 
Scarborough's  occupying  a  seat  just  behind  him. 
He  tilted  back  in  his  arm-chair  and  said,  in  an 
undertone:  "You're  voting  with  us?" 

Scarborough  shook  his  head.  "Can't  do  it. 
I'm  pledged  to  Adee." 

Pierson  looked  amused.  "Who's  he?  And 
who's  putting  him  up?" 

"I'm  nominating  him,"  replied  Scarborough, 
''as  the  barb  candidate." 

"Take  my  advice — don't  do  it,  old  man,"  said 
Pierson  in  a  friendly,  somewhat  patronizing  tone. 
"You'll  only  get  our  fellows  down  on  you — them 
and  all  the  fraternity  men.  And — well,  your 


64  THE  COST 

candidate'll  have  a  dozen  votes  or  so,  at  most — 
and  there'll  be  a  laugh." 

"Yes — I  suppose  there  will  be  a  laugh,"  said 
Scarborough,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"Don't  do  it,"  urged  Pierson.    "Be  practical." 

"No — I  leave  that  to  your  people." 

Just  then  nominations  for  president  were  called 
for  and  the  candidates  of  the  two  factions  were 
proposed  and  seconded.  "The  nominations  for 
president  are "  began  the  chairman,  but  be 
fore  he  could  utter  the  word  "closed"  Scar 
borough  was  on  his  feet — was  saying,  "Mr. 
Chairman !" 

Pierson  dropped  his  eyes  and  grew  red  with 
embarrassment  for  his  friend  who  was  thus  "rush 
ing  on  to  make  a  fool  of  himself." 

Scarborough's  glance  traveled  slowly  from  row 
to  row  of  expectant  young  men. 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  fellow-members  of  the 
Washington  and  Jefferson  Society,"  he  said  in  a 
conversational  tone.  "I  have  the  honor  of  plac 
ing  in  nomination  Frank  Adee,  of  Terre  Haute. 
In  addition  to  other  qualifications  of  which  it 
would  be  superfluous  for  me  to  speak  in  this  pres 
ence,  he  represents  the  masses  of  the  membership 
of  this  society  which  has  been  too  long  dominated 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  65 

by  and  for  its  classes.  It  is  time  to  compel  the 
fraternities  to  take  faction  and  caste  and  political 
wire-pulling  away  from  this  hall,  and  to  keep 
them  away.  It  is  time  to  retiedicate  our  society 
to  equality,  to  freedom  of  thought  and  speech, 
to  the  democratic  ideas  of  the  plain  yet  proud 
builders  of  this  college  of  ours." 

Scarborough  made  no  attempt  at  oratory,  made 
not  a  single  gesture.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
talking  privately  and  earnestly  with  each  one 
there.  He  sat  amid  silence;  when  a  few  barbs 
nervously  applauded,  the  fraternity  men  of  both 
factions,  recovering  themselves,  raised  a  succes 
sion  of  ironical  cheers.  A  shabby,  frightened 
barb  stood  awkwardly,  and  in  a  trembling,  weak 
voice  seconded  the  nomination.  There  was  an 
outburst  of  barb  applause — strong,  defiant.  Pier- 
son  was  anxiously  studying  the  faces  of  his  barbs. 

"By  Jove/'  he  muttered,  "Vance  has  been 
caught  napping.  I  believe  Scarborough  has  put 
up  a  job  on  us.  If  I  can't  gain  time  we're  beat.." 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  white.  In  a 
voice  which  he  struggled  in  vain  to  keep  to  his 
wonted  affected  indifferent  drawl,  he  said :  "Mr. 
Chairman,  I  move  you,  sir,  that  we  adjourn."  As 


66  THE  COST 

he  was  bending  to  sit  his  ready  lieutenant  second 
ed  the  motion. 

"Mr.  Chairman !"  It  was  an  excited  voice  from 
the  rear  of  the  hall — the  voice  of  a  tall,  lank,  sal 
low  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five.  "What  right/'  he 
shouted  shrilly,  "has  this  Mr.  Pierson  to  come 
here  and  make  that  there  motion  ?  He  ain't  never 
seen  here  except  on  election  nights.  He " 

The  chairman  rapped  sharply. 

"Motion  to  adjourn  not  debatable,"  he  said, 
and  then  mumbled  rapidly :  "The  question's  the 
motion  to  adjourn.  All  in  favor  say  Aye — all 
opposed,  No — the  ayes  seem  to  have  it — the 
ayes  have " 

"Mr.  Chairman ;  I  call  for  a  count  of  the  ayes 
and  noes !"  It  was  Scarborough,  standing,  com 
pletely  self-possessed.  His  voice  was  not  raised  but 
it  vibrated  through  that  room,  vibrated  through 
those  three  hundred  intensely  excited  young  men. 

The  chairman — Waller,  a  Zeta  Rho,  of  the 
Sigma  Alpha  combination — knew  that  Pierson 
was  scowling  a  command  to  him  to  override  the 
rules  and  adjourn  the  meeting;  but  he  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  Scarborough's,  dared  not  dis 
obey  Scarborough's  imperious  look.  "A  count  of 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  67 

the  ayes  and  noes  is  called  for,"  he  said.  "The 
secretary  will  call  the  roll." 

Pierson's  motion  was  lost — one  hundred  and 
thirty-two  to  one  hundred  and  seventy-nine.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  beaten ;  and  it  was 
an  overwhelming,  a  public  defeat  that  made  his 
leadership  ridiculous.  His  vanity  was  cut  sav 
agely  ;  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  control  him 
self  to  stay  and  witness  the  inevitable  rout.  He 
lounged  down  the  wide  aisle,  his  face  masked  in 
a  supercilious  smile,  his  glance  contemptuously 
?,ipon  the  jubilant  barbs.  They  were  thick  about 
the  doors,  and  as  he  passed  among  them  he  said, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular :  "A  revolt  of  the 
Helots."  A  barb  raised  a  threatening  fist;  Pier- 
scm  sneered,  and  the  fist  unclenched  and  dropped 
before  his  fearless  eyes. 

An  hour  later  Scarborough,  his  ticket  elected 
and  the  society  adjourned,  reached  Mrs.  Trent's 
porch.  In  its  darkness  he  saw  the  glowing  end 
of  a  cigarette.  "That  you,  Pierson?"  he  asked 
in  the  tone  of  one  who  knows  what  the  answer 
will  be. 

"Sit  down  for  a  few  minutes,"  came  the  reply, 
in  a  strained  voice. 

He  could  not  see  even  the  outline  of  Pierson's 


68  THE  COST 

face,  but  with  those  acute  sensibilities  which 
made  life  alternately  a  keen  pleasure  and  a  pain 
to  him,  he  felt  that  his  friend  was  struggling  for 
self-control.  He  waited  in  silence. 

At  last  Pierson  began :  "I  owe  you  an  apology. 
I've  been  thinking  all  sorts  of  things  about  you. 
I  know  they're  unjust  and — mean,  which  is  worse. 
But,  damn  it,  Scarborough,  I  hate  being  beaten. 
And  it  doesn't  make  defeat  any  the  easier  because 
you  did  it." 

He  paused ;  but  Scarborough  did  not  speak. 

"I'm  going  to  be  frank,"  Pierson  went  on  with 
an  effort.  "I  know  you  had  a  perfect  right  to  do 
as  you  pleased,  but — hang  it  all,  old  man — you 
might  have  warned  me." 

"But  I  didn't  do  as  I  pleased,"  said  Scar 
borough.  "And  as  for  telling  you — "  He 
paused  before  he  interrupted  himself  with:  "But 
first  I  want  to  say  that  I  don't  like  to  give  an 
account  of  myself  to  my  friends.  What  does 
friendship  mean  if  it  forbids  freedom?  I  didn't 
approve  or  condemn  you  because  you  belonged  to 
a  fraternity,  and  because  you  headed  a  clique  that 
was  destroying  the  Literary  Society  by  making 
it  a  place  for  petty  fraternity  politics  instead  of  a 
place  to  develop  speakers,  writers  and  debaters. 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  69 

Yet  now  you're  bringing  me  to  account  because  I 
didn't  slavishly  accept  your  ideas  as  my  own.  Do 
you  think  that's  a  sound  basis  for  a  friendship, 
Pierson?" 

When  Scarborough  began  Pierson  was  full  of  a 
grievance  which  he  thought  real  and  deep.  He 
was  proposing  to  forgive  Scarborough,  forgive 
him  generously,  but  not  without  making  him 
realize  that  it  was  an  act  of  generosity.  As  Scar 
borough  talked  he  was  first  irritated,  then,  and 
suddenly,  convinced  that  he  was  himself  in  the 
wrong — in  the  wrong  throughout. 

"Don't  say  another  word,  Scarborough,"  he 
replied,  impulsively  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of 
his  friend — how  powerful  it  felt  through  the 
sleeve!  "I've  been  spoiled  by  always  having  my 
own  way  and  by  people  letting  me  rule  them. 
You  gave  me  my  first  lesson  in  defeat.  And — I 
needed  it  badly.  As  for  your  not  telling  me,  you'd 
have  ruined  your  scheme  if  you  had.  Besides, 
looking  back,  I  see  that  you  did  warn  me.  I  know 
now  what  you  meant  by  always  jumping  on  the 
fraternities  and  the  combinations." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Scarborough,  simply. 
"When  I  saw  you  leaving  the  society  hall  I  feared 
I'd  lost  a  friend.  Instead,  I've  found  what  a  friend 


70  THE  COST 

I  have."  Then  after  a  brief  silence  he  continued : 
"This  little  incident  up  there  to-night — this  little 
revolution  I  took  part  in — has  meant  a  good  deal 
to  me.  It  was  the  first  chance  I'd  had  to  carry 
out  the  ideas  I've  thought  over  and  thought  over 
down  there  on  the  farm  while  I  was  working  in 
the  fields  or  lying  in  the  hay,  staring  up  at  the 
sky.  And  I  don't  suppose  in  all  the  future  I'll 
ever  have  a  greater  temptation  to  be  false  to 
myself  than  I  had  in  the  dread  that's  been  haunt 
ing  me — the  dread  of  losing  your  friendship — and 
the  friendship  of — of — some  others  who  might 
see  it  as  I  was  afraid  you  would.  There  may  be 
lessons  in  this  incident  for  you,  Fred.  But  the 
greatest  lesson  of  all  is  the  one  you've  taught  me 
— never  to  be  afraid  to  go  forward  when  the 
Finger  points." 

Pierson  and  Olivia  walked  to  chapel  together 
the  next  morning,  and  he  told  her  the  story  of  the 
defeat,  putting  himself  in  a  worse  light  than  he 
deserved.  But  Olivia,  who  never  lost  a  chance  to 
attack  him  for  his  shortcomings,  now,  to  his 
amazement,  burst  out  against  Scarborough. 

"It  was  contemptible,"  she  said  hotly.  "It 
was  treachery!  It  was  a  piece  of  cold-blooded 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  71 

ambition.  He'd  sacrifice  anything,  any  one,  to 
ambition.  I  shall  never  like  him  again." 

Pierson  was  puzzled — being  in  love  with  her, 
he  had  been  deceived  by  her  pretense  that  she  had 
a  poor  opinion  of  him ;  and  he  did  not  appreciate 
that  her  sense  of  justice  was  now  clouded  by  re 
sentment  for  his  sake.  At  dinner,  when  the  four 
were  together,  she  attacked  Scarborough. 
Though  she  did  not  confess  it,  he  forced  her  to 
see  that  at  least  his  motives  were  not  those  she 
had  been  attributing  to  him.  When  he  and  Pauline 
were  alone — Olivia  and  Pierson  had  to  hurry 
away  to  a  lecture — he  said :  "What  do  you  think, 
Miss  Gardiner?  You — did  you — do  you — agree 
with  your  cousin? 

"I?"  Pauline  dropped  her  eyes.     "Oh,  I " 

She  hesitated  so  long  that  he  said :  "Go  on — 
tell  me  just  what  you  think.  I'd  rather  know 
than  suspect." 

"I  think  you  did  right.  But — I  don't  see  how 
you  had  the  courage  to  do  it." 

"That  is,  you  think  I  did  right — but  the  sort 
of  right  that's  worse  than  wrong." 

"No — no !"  she  protested,  putting  a  good  deal 
of  feeling  into  her  voice  in  the  effort  to  reassure 
him.  "I'd  have  been  ashamed  of  you  if  you  hadn't 


72  THE  COST 

done  it.  And — oK,  I  despise  weakness  in  a  man 
most  of  all !  And  I  like  to  think  that  if  everybody 
in  college  had  denounced  you,  you'd  have  gone 
straight  on.  And — you  would!" 

Within  a  week  after  this  they  were  calling  each 
the  other  by  their  first  names. 

For  the  Christmas  holidays  she  went  with  her 
mother  from  Battle  Field  direct  to  Chicago,  to 
her  father's  sister,  Mrs.  Hayden — Colonel  Gard 
iner  had  been  called  south  on  business.  When 
she  came  back  she  and  Scarborough  took  up  their 
friendship  where  they  had  left  it.  They  read  the 
same  books,  had  similar  tastes,  disagreed  sym 
pathetically,  agreed  with  enthusiasm.  She  saw 
a  great  deal  of  several  other  men  in  her  class, 
enough  not  to  make  her  preference  for  him  sig 
nificant  to  the  college — or  to  herself.  They  went 
for  moonlight  straw-rides,  on  moonlight  and 
starlight  skating  and  ice-boat  parties,  for  long 
walks  over  the  hills — all  invariably  with  others, 
but  they  were  often  practically  alone.  He  rapidly 
dropped  his  rural  manners  and  mannerisms — Fred 
Pierson's  tailor  in  Indianapolis  made  the  most 
radical  of  the  surface  changes  in  him. 

Late  in  February  his  cousin,  the  superintend- 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  73 

ent  of  the  farm,  telegraphed  him  to  come  home. 
He  found  his  mother  ill — plainly  dying.  And  his 
father — Bladen  Scarborough's  boast  had  been 
that  he  never  took  a  "dose  of  drugs"  in  his  life, 
and  for  at  least  seventy  of  his  seventy-nine  years 
he  had  been  "on  the  jump"  daily  from  long  before 
dawn  until  long  after  sundown.  Now  he  was 
content  to  sit  in  his  arm-chair  and,  with  no  more 
vigorous  protest  than  a  frown  and  a  growl,  to 
swallow  the  despised  drugs. 

Each  day  he  made  them  carry  him  in  his  great 
chair  into  her  bedroom.  And  there  he  sat  all  day 
long,  his  shaggy  brows  down,  his  gaze  rarely 
wandering  from  the  little  ridge  her  small  body 
made  in  the  high  white  bed ;  and  in  his  stern  eyes 
there  was  a  look  of  stoic  anguish.  Each  night, 
as  they  were  carrying  him  to  his  own  room,  they 
took  him  near  the  bed;  and  he  leaned  forward, 
and  the  voice  that  in  all  their  years  had  never  been 
anything  but  gentle  for  her  said :  "Good  night, 
Sallie."  And  the  small  form  would  move  slightly, 
there  would  be  a  feeble  turning  of  the  head,  a  wan 
smile  on  the  little  old  face,  a  soft  "Good  night, 
Bladen." 

It  was  on  Hampden's  ninth  day  at  home  that 
the  old  man  said  "Good  night,  Sallie,"  and  there 


74  THE  COST 

was  no  answer — not  even  a  stir.  They  did  not 
offer  to  carry  him  in  the  next  morning;  nor  did 
he  turn  his  face  from  the  wall.  She  died  that  day ; 
he  three  days  later — he  had  refused  food  and 
medicine ;  he  had  not  shed  a  tear  or  made  a  sound. 

Thus  the  journey  side  by  side  for  fifty-one 
years  was  a  journey  no  longer.  They  were 
asleep  side  by  side  on  the  hillside  for  ever. 

Hampden  stayed  at  home  only  one  day  after 
the  funeral.  He  came  back  to  Battle  Field  appar 
ently  unchanged.  He  was  not  in  black,  for  Bla- 
den  Scarborough  abhorred  mourning  as  he 
abhorred  all  outward  symbols  of  the  things  of 
the  heart.  But  after  a  week  he  told  Pauline  about 
it ;  and  as  he  talked  she  sobbed,  though  his  voice 
did  not  break  nor  his  eyes  dim. 

"He's  like  his  father,"  she  thought. 

When  Olivia  believed  that  Dumont  was  safely 
forgotten  she  teased  her — "Your  adoring  and 
adored  Scarborough." 

Pauline  was  amused  by  this.  With  his  unfail 
ing  instinct,  Scarborough  had  felt — and  had  never 
permitted  himself  to  forget — that  there  was  some 
sort  of  wall  round  hei  for  him.  It  was  in  perfect 
good  faith  that  she  answered  Olivia :  "You  don't 


"LIKE  HIS  FATHER"  75 

understand  him.  He's  a  queer  man — sometimes 
I  wonder  myself  that  he  doesn't  get  just  a  little 
sentimental.  I  suppose  I'd  find  him  exasperating 
— if  I  weren't  otherwise  engaged." 

Olivia  tried  not  to  show  irritation  at  this  refer 
ence  to  Dumont.  "I  think  you're  mistaken  about 
which  of  you  is  queer,"  she  said.  "You  are  the 
one — not  he." 

"I?"  Pauline  laughed — she  was  thinking  of 
her  charm  against  any  love  but  one  man's,  the 
wedding  ring  she  always  wore  at  her  neck.  "Why, 
I  couldn't  fall  in  love  with  him." 

"The  woman  who  gets  him  will  do  mighty 
well  for  herself — in  every  way,"  said  Olivia. 

"Indeed  she  will.  But — I'd  as  soon  think  of 
falling  in  love  with  a  tree  or  a  mountain." 

She  liked  her  phrase;  it  seemed  to  her  exactly 
to  define  her  feeling  for  Scarborough.  She  liked 
it  so  well  that  she  repeated  it  to  herself  reassur 
ingly  many  times  in  the  next  few  weeks. 


VII. 

PAULINE   AWAKENS. 

In  the  last  week  of  March  came  a  succession  oi 
warm  rains.  The  leaves  burst  from  their  impa 
tient  hiding  just  within  the  cracks  in  the  gray 
bark.  And  on  Monday  the  unclouded  sun  was 
irradiating  a  pale  green  world  from  a  pale  blue 
sky.  The  four  windows  of  Pauline  and  Olivia's 
sitting-room  were  up ;  a  warm,  scented  wind  was 
blowing  this  way  and  that  the  strays  of  Pauline's 
red-brown  hair  as  she  sat  at  the  table,  her  eyes 
on  a  book,  her  thoughts  on  a  letter- — Dumont's 
first  letter  on  landing  in  America.  A  knock,  and 
she  frowned  slightly. 

"Come!"  she  cried,  her  expression  slowly  veer 
ing  toward  welcome. 

The  door  swung  back  and  in  came  Scar 
borough.  Not  the  awkward  youth  of  last  Octo 
ber,  but  still  unable  wholly  to  conceal  how  much 
at  a  disadvantage  he  felt  before  the  woman  he 
particularly  wished  to  please. 

"Yes — I'm  ten  minutes  early,"  he  said,  apology 
in  his  tone — for  his  instinct  told  him  that  he  was 

76 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  77 

interrupting,  and  he  had  too  little  vanity  to  see 
that  the  interruption  was  agreeable.  "But  I 
thought  you'd  be  only  reading  a  novel." 

For  answer  she  held  up  the  book  which  lay 
before  her — a  solemn  volume  in  light  brown  calf. 

"Analytical  geometry,"  he  said;  "and  on  the 
first  day  of  the  finest  spring  the  world  ever  saw !" 
He  was  at  the  window,  looking  out  longingly — • 
sunshine,  and  soft  air  washed  clean  by  the  rains ; 
the  new-born  leaves  and  buds;  the  pioneer  birds 
and  flowers.  "Let's  go  for  a  walk.  We  can  do 
the  Vergil  to-night." 

"You — talking  of  neglecting  work!"  Her  smile 
seemed  to  him  to  sparkle  as  much  in  the  waves  of 
her  hair  as  in  her  even  white  teeth  and  gold-brown 
eyes.  "So  you're  human,  just  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Human!"  He  glanced  at  her  and  instantly 
glanced  away. 

"Do  leave  that  window,"  she  begged.  "We 
must  get  the  Vergil  now.  I'm  reading  an  essay  at 
the  society  to-night — they've  fined  me  twice  for 
neglecting  it.  But  if  you  stand  there  reminding 
me  of  what's  going  on  outside  I'll  not  be  able  to 
resist." 

"How  this  would  look  from  Indian  Rock !" 

She  flung  open  a  Vergil  text-book  with  a  relent- 


78  THE  COST 

less  shake  of  the  head.    "I've  got  the  place.    Book 

three,  line  two  forty-five 

'  'Una  in  praecelsa  consedit  rupe  Celaeno '  " 

"It  does  n't  matter  what  that  hideous  old  Harpy 
howled  at  the  pious  ^Eneas,"  he  grumbled.  "Let's 
go  out  and  watch  the  Great  God  Pan  dedicate  his 
brand-new  temple." 

"Do  sit  there !"  She  pointed  a  slim  white  fore 
finger  at  the  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table 
— the  side  nearer  him.  "I'll  be  generous  and 
work  the  dictionary  to-day."  And  she  opened  a 
fat,  black,  dull-looking  book  beside  the  Vergil. 

"Where's  the  Johnnie?"  he  asked,  reluctantly 
dropping  into  the  chair. 

She  laid  Dryden's  translation  of  the  Aeneid  on 
his  side  of  the  table.  They  always  read  the  poeti 
cal  version  before  they  began  to  translate  for  the 
class-room — Dryden  was  near  enough  to  the  orig 
inal  to  give  them  its  spirit,  far  enough  to  quiet 
their  consciences.  "Find  the  place  yourself,"  said 
she.  "I'm  not  going  to  do  everything." 

He  opened  the  Dryden  and  languidly  turned  the 
pages.  "  'At  length  rebuff'd,  they  leave  their 
mangled '  "  he  began. 

"No— two  or  three  lines  farther  down,"  she 
interrupted.  "That  was  in  the  last  lesson." 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  ?9 

He  pushed  back  the  rebellious  lock  that  insisted 
on  falling  down  the  middle  of  his  forehead, 
plunged  his  elbows  fiercely  upon  the  table,  put 
his  fists  against  his  temples,  and  began  again : 

"  'High  on  a  craggy  cliff  Celseno  sate 
And  thus  her  dismal  errand  did  relate — ' 

Have  you  got  the  place  in  the  Latin?"  he  inter 
rupted  himself. 

Fortunately  he  did  not  look  up,  for  she  was 
watching  the  waving  boughs.  "Yes,"  she  replied, 
hastily  returning  to  the  book.  "You  do  your 
part  and  I'll  do  mine." 

He  read  a  few  lines  in  an  absent-minded  sing 
song,  then  interrupted  himself  once  more:  "Did 
you  ever  smell  anything  like  that  breeze?" 

"Never.  'Bellum  etiam  pro  caede  bovum' — go 
on — I'm  listening — or  trying  to." 

He  read: 

"  'But  know  that  ere  your  promised  walls  you 

build, 

My  curse  shall  severely  be  fulfilled. 
Fierce  famine  is  your  lot — for  this  misdeed, 
Reduced  to  grind  the  plates  on  which  you  feed/  " 


80  THE  COST 

He  glanced  at  her.  She  was  leaning  on  her 
elbow,  obviously  weaving  day-dreams  round  those 
boughs  as  they  trembled  with  the  ecstasy  of 
spring. 

"You  are  happy  to-day?''  he  said. 

"Yes — happier  than  I  have  been  for  a  year." 
She  smiled  mysteriously.  "I've  had  good  news." 
She  turned  abruptly,  looked  him  in  the  eyes  with 
that  frank,  clear  expression — his  favorite  among 
his  memory-pictures  of  her  had  it.  "There's  one 
thing  that  worries  me — it's  never  off  my  mind 
longer  than  a  few  minutes.  And  when  I'm  blue, 
as  I  usually  am  on  rainy  days,  it  makes  me — 
horribly  uncomfortable.  I've  often  almost  asked 
your  advice  about  it." 

"If  you'd  be  sorry  afterward  that  you  told  me," 
said  he,  "I  hope  you  won't.  But  if  I  can  help  you, 
you  know  how  glad  I'd  be." 

"It's  no  use  to  tell  Olivia,"  Pauline  went  on. 
"She's  bitterly  prejudiced.  But  ever  since  the  first 
month  I  knew  you,  I  felt  that  I  could  trust  you, 
that  you  were  a  real  friend.  And  you're  so  fair 
in  judging  people  and  things." 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  tilt  the  scales— just  a  little— 
where  you  were  concerned." 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  81 

"Oh,  I  want  you  to  do  that/'  she  answered 
with  a  smile.  "Last  fall  I  did  something — well, 
it  was  foolish,  though  I  wouldn't  admit  that  to 
any  one  else.  I  was  carried  away  by  an  impulse. 
Not  that  I  regret.  In  the  only  really  important 
way,  I  wouldn't  undo  it  if  I  could — I  think." 
Those  last  two  words  came  absently,  as  if  she 
were  debating  the  matter  with  herself. 

"If  it's  done  and  can't  be  undone/'  he  said 
cheerfully,  "I  don't  see  that  advice  is  needed." 

"But — you  don't  understand."  She  seemed  to 
be  casting  about  for  words.  "As  I  said,  it  was 
last  fall — here.  In  Saint  X  there  was  a  man — 
and  he  and  I — we'd  cared  for  each  other  ever 
since  we  were  children.  And  then  he  went  away 
to  college.  He  did  several  things  father  didn't 
like.  You  know  how  older  people  are — they  don't 
make  allowances.  And  though  father's  the  gen 
tlest,  best — at  any  rate,  he  turned  against  Jack, 
and—-" 

Scarborough  abruptly  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  her. 

After  a  pause  Pauline  said,  in  a  rush,  "And  he 
came  here  last  fall  and  we  got  married." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"It  was  dreadful,  wasn't  it?"  she  said  in  the 


83  THE  COST 

tone  of  one  who  has  just  made  a  shocking  dis 
covery. 

Scarborough  did  not  answer. 

"I  never  realized  till  this  minute/'  she  went  on 
after  a  while.  "Not  that  I'm  sorry  or  that  I  don't 
— don't  eare — just  as  I  always  did.  But  some 
how,  telling  it  out  loud  to  some  one  else  has 
made  me  see  it  in  a  different  light.  It  didn't  seem 
like  treachery  to  them — to  father  and  mother — • 
then.  It  hasn't  seemed  like  a — a  marriage — 
really  marriage — until  now." 

Another  long  silence.  Then  she  burst  out 
appealingly :  "Oh,  I  don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going 
to  tell  them !" 

Scarborough  came  back  to  his  chair  and  seated 
himself.  His  face  was  curiously  white.  It  was 
in  an  unnatural  voice  that  he  said :  "How  old  is 
he?" 

"Twenty-five,"  she  replied,  then  instantly  flared 
up,  as  if  he  had  attacked  Dumont :  "But  it  wasn't 
his  fault — not  in  the  least.  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing — and  I  wanted  to  do  it.  You  mustn't  get 
a  false  impression  of  him,  Hampden.  You'd 
admire  and  respect  him.  You — any  one — would 
have  done  as  he  did  in  the  same  circumstances." 
She  blushed  slightly.  "You  and  he  are  ever  so 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  83 

much  alike — even  in  looks.  It  was  that  that  made 
me  tell  you,  that  made  me  like  you  as  I  have — 
and  trust  you." 

Scarborough  winced.  Presently  he  began: 
"Yet  you  regret " 

"No — no !"  she  protested— too  vehemently.  "I 
do  not  regret  marrying  him.  That  was  certain 
to  be  sooner  or  later.  All  I  regret  is  that  I  did 
something  that  seems  underhanded.  Perhaps 
I'm  really  only  sorry  I  didn't  tell  them  as  soon 
as  I'd  done  it" 

She  waited  until  she  saw  he  was  not  going  to 
speak. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  them."  Again  she  waited,  but  he  did  not 
speak,  continued  to  look  steadily  out  into  the  sky. 
"What  do  you  think?"  she  asked  nervously.  "But 
I  can  see  without  your  saying.  Only  I — wish 
you'd  say  it." 

"No,  I  don't  condemn  you,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I  know  you.  You  couldn't  possibly  do  anything 
underhanded.  If  you'd  been  where  you'd  have 
had  to  conceal  it  directly,  face  to  face,  from  some 
one  who  had  the  right  to  know — you'd  never  have 
done  it."  He  rested  his  arms  on  the  table  and 
looked  straight  at  her.  "I  feel  I  must  tell  you 


84  THE  COST 

what  I  think.  And  I  feel,  too,  it  wouldn't  be  faif 
and  honest  if  I  didn't  let  you  see  why  you  might 
not  want  to  take  my  advice." 

She  returned  his  gaze  inquiringly. 

"I  love  you,"  he  went  on  calmly.  "I've  known 
it  ever  since  I  missed  you  so  at  the  Christmas 
holidays.  I  love  you  for  what  you  are,  and  for 
what  you're  as  certain  to  be  as — as  a  rosebud  is 
certain  to  be  a  full-blown  rose.  I  love  you  as  my 
father  loved  my  mother.  I  shall  love  you — 
always."  His  manner  was  calm,  matter-of-fact; 
but  there  was  in  his  musical,  magical  voice  a  cer 
tain  quality  which  set  her  nerves  and  her  blood 
suddenly  to  vibrating.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
struggling  in  a  great  sea — the  sea  of  his  love  for 
her — struggling  to  reach  the  safety  of  the  shore. 

"Oh— I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"Suppose  I  hadn't ;  suppose  you  had  taken  my 
advice?  No" — he  shook  his  head  slowly — "I 
couldn't  do  that,  Pauline — not  even  to  win  you." 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  anything  to  you  about  it." 

"You  needn't  be.  You  haven't  harmed  your 
self.  And  maybe  I  can  help  you." 

"No — we  won't  talk  of  it,"  she  said — she  was 
pressing  her  hand  on  her  bosom  where  she  could 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  85 

feel  her  wedding  ring.     "It  wouldn't  be  right, 
now.     I  don't  wish  your  advice." 

"But  I  must  give  it.  I'm  years  and  years  older 
than  you — many,  many  years  more  than  the  six 
between  us.  And " 

"I  don't  wish  to  hear." 

"For  his  sake,  for  your  own  sake,  Pauline,  tell 
them!  And  they'll  surely  help  you  to  wait  till 
you're  older  before  you  do  anything — irrevoc 
able." 

"But  I  care  for  him,"  she  said — angrily,  though 
it  could  not  have  been  what  he  was  saying  so 
gently  that  angered  her.  "You  forget  that  I  care 
for  him.  It  is  irrevocable  now.  And  I'm  glad 
it  is!" 

"You  like  him.  You  don't  love  him.  And 
— he's  not  worthy  of  your  love.  I'm  sure  it  isn't 
prejudice  that  makes  me  say  it.  If  he  were,  he'd 
have  waited " 

She  was  on  her  feet,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"I  asked  for  advice,  not  a  lecture.  I  despise 
you!  Attacking  the  man  I  love — and  behind  his 
back!  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

He  rose  but  met  her  look  without  flinching. 

"You  can  send  me  away,"  he  said  gently,  "but 
you  can't  send  away  my  words.  And  if  they're 


86  THE  COST 

true  you'll  feel  them  when  you  get  over  your 
anger.  You'll  do  what  you  think  right.  But — 
— be  sure,  Pauline.  Be  sure!"  In  his  eyes  there 
was  a  look — the  secret  altar  with  the  never-to- 
be-extinguished  flame  upon  it.  "Be  sure,  Pauline. 
Be  sure" 

Her  anger  fell ;  she  sank,  forlorn,  into  a  chair. 
For  both,  the  day  had  shriveled  and  shadowed. 
And  as  he  turned  and  left  the  room  the  warmth 
and  joy  died  from  air  and  sky  and  earth;  both 
of  them  felt  the  latent  chill — it  seemed  not  a  rem 
iniscence  of  winter  past  but  the  icy  foreboding  of 
winter  closing  in. 

When  Olivia  came  back  that  evening  from 
shopping  in  Indianapolis  she  found  her  cousin 
packing. 

"Is  it  something  from  home?"  she  asked, 
alarmed. 

Pauline  did  not  look  up  as  she  answered : 

"No — but  I'm  going  home — to  stay — going  in 
the  morning.  I've  telegraphed  them." 

"To  stay!" 

"Yes — I  was  married  to  Jack — here — last 
fall." 

"You — married!  To  'John  Dumont — you,  only 
seventeen — oh,  Pauline "  And  Olivia  gave 


PAULINE  AWAKENS  87 

way  to  tears  for  the  first  time  since  she  was  a 
baby. 

Scarborough  was  neither  at    supper    nor    at 
breakfast — Pauline  left  without  seeing  him  ag^in. 


VIII. 

THE  DECISION. 

When  the  sign-board  on  a  station  platform  said 
"5.2  miles  to  St.  X,"  Pauline  sank  back  in  her 
chair  in  the  parlor-car  with  blanched  face.  And 
almost  immediately,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  Saint 
X  came  into  view — home !  She  fancied  she  could 
see  the  very  house  as  she  looked  down  on  the  mass 
of  green  in  which  the  town  was  embowered.  The 
train  slid  into  the  station,  slowed  down — there 
were  people  waiting  on  the  platform — her  father ! 
He  was  glancing  from  window  to  window,  try 
ing  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her ;  and  his  expression 
of  almost  agonized  eagerness  made  her  heartsick. 
She  had  been  away  from  him  for  nearly  seven 
months — long  enough  to  break  the  habit  which 
makes  it  impossible  for  members  of  a  family  to 
know  how  they  really  look  to  each  other.  How 
gray  and  thin  his  beard  seemed !  What  was  the 
meaning  of  that  gaunt  look  about  his  shoulders? 
What  was  the  strange,  terrifying  shadow  over 
him?  "Why,  he's  old!"  The  tears  welled  into 

her  eyes — "He's  gliding  away  from  me!"     She 

88 


THE  DECISION  89 

remembered  what  she  had  to  tell  him  and  her 
knees  almost  refused  to  support  her. 

He  was  at  the  step  as  she  sprang  down.  She 
flew  into  his  arms.  He  held  her  away  from  him 
and  scanned  her  face  with  anxious  eyes. 

"Is  my  little  girl  ill?"  he  asked.  "The  tele 
gram  made  me  uneasy." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  with  a  reassuring  hug. 
"Where's  mother?" 

"She— she's  got  a — a — surprise  for  you.  We 
must  hurry — she'll  be  impatient,  though  she's 
seen  you  since  I  have." 

At  the  curbstone  stood  the  familiar  surrey,  with 
Mordecai  humped  upon  the  front  seat.  "I  don't 
see  how  the  colonel  ever  knowed  you,"  said  he, 
as  she  shook  hands  with  him.  "I  never  seen  the 
like  for  growin'." 

"But  you  look  just  the  same,  Mordecai — you 
and  the  surrey  and  the  horses.  And  how's 
Amanda?" 

"Poorly,"  replied  Mordecai — his  invariable  an 
swer  to  inquiries  about  his  wife.  She  patterned 
after  the  old  school,  which  held  that  for  a  woman 
to  confess  to  good  health  was  for;  her  to  confess 
to  lack  of  refinement,  if  not  of  delicacy. 

"You    think    I've    changed,    father?"    asked 


90  THE  COST 

Pauline,  when  the  horses  were  whirling  them 
home.  She  was  so  busily  greeting  the  familiar 
streets  and  houses  and  trees  and  faces  that  she 
hardly  heard  his  reply. 

"  1  never  seen  the  like  for  growin'/ '  he 
quoted,  his  eyes  shining  with  pride  in  her.  He 
was  a  reticent  man  by  nature  as  well  as  by  train 
ing;  he  could  not  have  said  how  beautiful,  how 
wonderful  he  thought  her,  or  how  intensely  he 
loved  her.  The  most  he  could  do  to  express  him 
self  to  her  was,  a  little  shyly,  to  pat  her  hand — 
and  to  look  it  into  Mordecai's  back. 

She  was  about  to  snuggle  up  to  him  as  a  wave 
of  delight  at  being  home  again  swept  over  her; 
but  her  secret  rushed  from  the  background  of  her 
mind.  "How  could  I  have  done  it?  How  can 
I  tell  them?"  Then,  the  serene  and  beautiful 
kindness  of  her  father's  face  reassured  her. 

Her  mother  was  waiting  in  the  open  front  door 
as  the  surrey  came  up  the  drive — still  the  same 
dear  old-young  mother,  with  the  same  sweet  dig 
nity  and  gentleness. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother!"  exclaimed  Pauline, 
leaping  from  the  carriage  into  her  arms.  And 
as  they  closed  about  her  she  felt  that  sorrow  and 
evil  could  not  touch  her;  felt  just  as  when  she. 


THE  DECISION  91 

a  little  girl,  fleeing  from  some  frightful  phantom 
Of  her  own  imagining,  had  rushed  there  for  safety. 
She  choked,  she  sobbed,  she  led  her  mother  to 
the  big  sofa  opposite  the  stairway;  and,  sitting 
there,  they  held  each  the  other  tightly,  Pauline 
kissing  her,  smoothing  her  hair,  she  caressing 
Pauline  and  crying  softly. 

"We've  got  a  surprise  for  you,  Polly,"  said  she, 
when  they  were  calmer. 

"I  don't  want  anything  but  you  and  father," 
replied  Pauline. 

Her  father  turned  away — and  so  she  did  not 
see  the  shadow  deepen  in  his  face.  Her  mother 
shook  her  head,  mischief  in  her  eyes  that  were 
young  as  a  girl's — younger  far  than  her  daugh 
ter's  at  that  moment.  "Go  into  the  sitting-room 
and  see,"  she  said. 

Pauline  opened  the  sitting-room  door.  John 
Dumont  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "Polly!"  he 
exclaimed.  "It's  all  right.  They've  come  round 
and — and — here  I  am !" 

Pauline  pushed  him  away  from  her  and  sank 
to  the  floor  in  a  faint. 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  lying  on  the 
divan  in  the  sitting-room.  Her  mother  was 
kneeling  beside  her,  bathing  her  temples  with 


92  THE  COST 

cold  water;  her  father  and  her  husband  were 
standing,  helplessly  looking  at  her.  "Send  him 
away,"  she  murmured,  closing  her  eyes. 

Only  her  mother  heard.  She  motioned  to  the 
two  men  to  leave  the  room.  When  the  door 
closed  Pauline  sat  up. 

"He  said  it  was  all  right,"  she  began  feverishly. 
"What  did  he  mean,  mother?"  She  was  hoping 
she  was  to  be  spared  the  worst  part  of  her  ordeal. 

But  her  mother's  reply  dashed  her  hopes,  made 
her  settle  back  among  the  cushions  and  hide  her 
face.  "It  is  all  right,  Polly.  You're  to  have  your 
own  way,  and  it's  your  father's  way.  John  has 
convinced  him  that  he  really  has  changed.  We 
knew — that  is,  I  suspected  why  you  were  coming, 
and  we  thought  we'd  give  you  a  surprise — give 
you  what  your  heart  was  set  on,  before  you  had 
to  ask  for  it.  I'm  so  sorry,  dear,  that  the  shock 
was—" 

Pauline  lay  perfectly  still,  her  face  hidden. 
After  a  pause:  "I  don't  feel  well  enough  to  see 
him  now.  I  want  this  day  with  you  and  father. 
To-morrow — to-morrow,  we'll — to-day  I  want  to 
be  as  I  was  when  I  was — just  you  and  father,  and 
the  house  and  the  garden." 

Her  mother  left  her  for  a  moment  and,  when 


THE  DECISION  93 

she  came  back,  said :  "He's  gone."  Pauline  gave 
a  quick  sigh  of  relief.  Soon  she  rose.  "I'm  go 
ing  for  father,  and  we'll  walk  in  the  garden  and 
forget  there's  anybody  else  in  the  world  but  just 
us  three." 

At  half-past  eight  they  had  family  prayers  in 
the  sitting-room;  Pauline  kneeling  near  her 
mother,  her  father  kneeling  beside  his  arm-chair 
and  in  a  tremulous  voice  pouring  out  his  grati 
tude  to  God  for  keeping  them  all  "safe  from  the 
snares  and  temptations  of  the  world,"  for  lead 
ing  them  thus  far  on  the  journey. 

"And,  God,  our  Father,  we  pray  Thee,  have 
this  daughter  of  ours,  this  handmaiden  of  Thine, 
ever  in  Thy  keeping.  And  these  things  we  ask  in 
the  name  of  Thy  Son — Amen."  The  serene  quiet, 
the  beloved  old  room,  the  evening  scene  familiar 
to  her  from  her  earliest  childhood,  her  father's 
reverent,  earnest  voice,  halting  and  almost  break 
ing  after  every  word  of  the  petition  for  her;  her 
mother's  soft  echo  of  his  "Amen" — Pauline's 
eyes  were  swimming  as  she  rose  from  her  knees. 

Her  mother  went  with  her  to  her  bedroom, 
hovered  about  her  as  she  undressed,  helped  her 
now  and  then  with  fingers  that  trembled  with 
happiness,  and,  when  she  was  in  bed,  put  out  the 


94  THE  COST 

light  and  "tucked  her  in"  and  kissed  her — as 
in  the  old  days.  "Good  night— God  bless  my  little 
daughter— my  happy  little  daughter." 

Pauline  waited  until  she  knew  that  they  were 
sleeping.  Then  she  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and 
went  to  the  open  window — how  many  spring 
times  had  she  sat  there  in  the  moonlight  to  watch, 
as  now,  the  tulips  and  the  hyacinths  standing  like 
fairies  and  bombarding  the  stars  with  the  most 
delicious  perfumes. 

She  sat  hour  after  hour,  giving  no  outward  sign 
of  battle  within.  In  every  lull  came  Scar 
borough's  "Be  sure,  Pauline !"  to  start  the  tumult 
afresh.  When  the  stars  began  to  pale  in  the 
dawn  she  rose — she  was  sure.  Far  from  sure 
that  she  was  doing  the  best  for  herself;  but  sure, 
sure  without  a  doubt,  that  she  was  doing  her  duty 
to  her  parents. 

"I  must  not  punish  them  for  my  sin,"  she  said. 

Late  the  next  morning  she  went  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  garden,  to  the  small  summer-house 
where  she  had  played  with  her  dolls  and  her 
dishes,  where  she  had  worked  with  slate  and  spell 
ing-book,  where  she  had  read  her  favorite  school 
girl  romances,  where  she  had  dreamed  her  own 


THE  DECISION  95 

school-girl  romance.  She  was  waiting  under  the 
friendly  old  canopy  of  bark — the  posts  support 
ing  it  were  bark-clad,  too;  up  and  around  and 
between  them  clambered  the  morning-glories  in 
whose  gorgeous,  velvet-soft  trumpets  the  sun- 
jewels  glittered. 

And  presently  he  came  down  the  path,  his  keen 
face  and  insolent  eyes  triumphant.  He  was  too 
absorbed  in  his  own  emotion  especially  to  note 
hers.  Besides,  she  had  always  been  receptive 
rather  than  demonstrative  with  him. 

"We'll  be  married  again,  and  do  the  gossips  out 
of  a  sensation,"  he  said.  Though  she  was  not 
looking  at  him,  his  eyes  shifted  from  her  face 
as  he  added  in  a  voice  which  at  another  time  she 
might  have  thought  strained:  "Then,  too,  your 
father  and  mother  and  mine  are  so  strait-laced — 
it'd  give  'em  a  terrible  jar  to  find  out.  You're 
a  good  deal  like  them,  Polly — only  in  a  modern 
sort  of  way." 

Pauline  flushed  scarlet  and  compressed  her  lips. 
She  said  presently:  "You're  sure  you  wish  it?" 

"Wish  what?" 

"To  marry  me.  Sometimes  I've  thought  we're 
both  too  young,  that  we  might  wait — — " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  with  an  air  of  proud 


96  THE  COST 

possession.     "What'd  be  the  sense  in  that?"  he 
demanded  gaily.     "Aren't  you  mine?" 

And  again  she  flushed  and  lowered  her  eyes 
and  compressed  her  lips.  Then  she  astonished 
him  by  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kiss 
ing  him  hysterically.  "But  I  do  love  you!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  do!  1  do!" 


IX. 

A    THOROUGHBRED   RUNS    AWAY. 

It  was  midday  six  weeks  later,  and  Pauline  and 
Dumont  were  landing  at  Liverpool,  when  Scar 
borough  read  in  the  college-news  column  of  the 
Battle  Field  Banner  that  she  had  "married  the 
only  son  of  Henry  Dumont,  of  Saint  Christo 
pher,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  our  state,  and  has 
departed  for  an  extended  foreign  tour."  Olivia — 
and  Pierson  naturally — had  known,  but  neither 
had  had  the  courage  to  tell  him. 

Scarborough  was  in  Pierson's  room.  He  low 
ered  the  paper  from  in  front  of  his  face  after  a 
few  minutes. 

"I  see  Pauline  has  married  and  gone  abroad," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  so  I  heard  from  Olivia,"  replied  Pierson, 
avoiding  Scarborough's  eyes. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  continued  Scar 
borough,  tranquil  so  far  as  Pierson  could  judge, 
"I'd  have  liked  to  send  her  a  note." 

Pierson  was  silent. 

If 


98  THE  COST 

"I  thought  it  would  cut  him  horribly,"  he  was 
thinking.  "And  he's  taking  it  as  if  he  had  only 
a  friendly  interest."  Scarborough's  face  was 
again  behind  the  newspaper.  When  he  had  fin 
ished  it  he  sauntered  toward  the  door.  He 
paused  there  to  glance  idly  at  the  titles  of  the 
top  row  in  the  book-case.  Pierson  was  watching 
him.  "No — it's  all  right,"  he  concluded.  Scar 
borough  was  too  straight  and  calm  just  to  have 
received  such  a  blow  as  that  news  would  have 
been  had  he  cared  for  Pauline.  Pierson  liked  his 
look  better  than  ever  before — the  tall,  powerful 
figure;  the  fair  hair  growing  above  his  wide  and 
lofty  brow,  with  the  one  defiant  lock ;  and  in  his 
aquiline  nose  and  blue-gray  eyes  and  almost  per 
fect  mouth  and  chin  the  stamp  of  one  who  would 
move  forward  irresistibly,  moving  others  to  his 
will. 

"How  old  are  you,  Scarborough?"  he  asked. 

"Twenty-three — nearly  twenty-four.  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  to  be  only  a  freshman,  oughtn't 
I?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I'm  tired  of 
it  all."  And  he  strolled  out. 

He  avoided  Pierson  and  Olivia  and  all  his 
friends  for  several  days,  went  much  into  the 
woods  alone,  took  long  walks  at  night.  Olivia 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY  99 

would  have  it  that  he  had  been  hard  hit,  and 
almost  convinced  Pierson. 

"He's  the  sort  of  person  that  suffers  the  most/' 
she  said.  "I've  a  brother  like  him — -won't  have 
sympathy,  keeps  a  wound  covered  up  so  that  it 
can't  heal." 

"But  what  shall  I  do  for  him?"  asked  Pierson. 

"Don't  do  anything — he'd  hate  you  if  you  did." 

After  a  week  or  ten  days  he  called  on  Pierson 
and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  began  to  shuffle 
a  pack  of  cards.  He  looked  tired. 

"I  never  saw  cards  until  I  was  fifteen,"  he  said. 
"At  home  they  thought  them  one  of  the  devil's 
worst  devices — we  had  a  real  devil  in  our  house." 

"So  did  we,"  said  Pierson. 

"But  not  a  rip-snorter  like  ours — they  don't 
have  him  in  cities,  or  even  in  towns,  any  more. 
I've  seen  ours  lots  of  times  after  the  lights  were 
out — saw  him  long  after  I'd  convinced  myself  in 
daylight  that  he  didn't  exist.  But  I  never  saw 
him  so  close  as  the  night  of  the  day  I  learned 
to  play  casino." 

"Did  you  learn  in  the  stable?"  asked  Pierson. 
"That's  where  I  learned,  and  mother  slipped  up 
behind  me — I  didn't  know  what  was  coming  till 


100  THE  COST 

I  saw  the  look  in  the  other  boy's  face.  Then — " 
Pierson  left  the  rest  to  imagination. 

"I  learned  in  the  hay-loft — my  sister  and  my 
cousin  Ed  and  I.  One  of  the  farm-hands  taught 
us.  The  cards  were  so  stained  we  could  hardly 
see  the  faces.  That  made  them  look  the  more 
devilish.  And  a  thunder-storm  came  up  and  the 
lightning  struck  a  tree  a  few  rods  from  the  barn." 

"Horrible!"  exclaimed  Pierson.  "I'll  bet  you 
fell  to  praying." 

"Not  I.  I'd  just  finished  Tom  Paine's  Age  of 
Reason — a  preacher's  son  down  the  pike  stole  it 
from  a  locked  closet  in  his  father's  library  and 
loaned  it  to  me.  But  I'll  admit  the  thunderbolt 
staggered  me.  I  said  to  them — pretty  shakily,  I 
guess:  'Come  on,  let's  begin  again.'  But  the 
farm-hand  said:  1  reckon  I'll  get  on  the  safe 
side,'  and  began  to  pray — how  he  roared!  And 
I  laughed — how  wicked  and  reckless  and  brave 
that  laugh  did  sound  to  me.  'Bella  and  Ed  didn't 
know  which  to  be  more  afraid  of — my  ridicule 
or  the  lightning.  They  compromised — they 
didn't  pray  and  they  didn't  play." 

"And  so  you've  never  touched  a  card  since." 

"We  played  again  the  next  afternoon- — let's 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         101 

have  a  game  of  poker.  I'm  bored  to  death  to 
day." 

This  was  Scarborough's  first  move  toward  the 
fast  set  of  which  Pierson  was  leader.  It  was  a 
small  fast  set — there  were  not  many  spoiled  sons 
at  Battle  Field.  But  its  pace  was  rapid ;  for  every 
member  of  it  had  a  constitution  that  was  a  huge 
reservoir  of  animal  spirits  and  western  energy. 
They  "cribbed"  their  way  through  recitations  and 
examinations — as  the  faculty  did  not  put  the  stu 
dents  on  honor  but  watched  them,  they  reasoned 
that  cribbing  was  not  dishonorable  provided 
one  did  barely  enough  of  it  to  pull  him  through. 
They  drank  a  great  deal — usually  whisky,  which 
they  disliked  but  poured  down  raw,  because  it 
was  the  "manly"  drink  and  to  take  it  undiluted 
was  the  "manly"  way.  They  made  brief  excur 
sions  to  Indianapolis  and  Chicago  for  the  sort 
of  carousals  that  appeal  to  the  strong  appetites 
and  undiscriminating  tastes  of  robust  and  curious 
youth. 

Scarborough  at  once  began  to  reap  the  reward 
of  his  advantages — a  naturally  bold  spirit,  an  un^ 
naturally  reckless  mood.  In  two  weeks  he  won 
three  hundred  dollars,  half  of  it  from  Pierson. 
He  went  to  Chicago  and  in  three  nights'  play  in* 


102  THE  COST 

creased  this  to  twenty-nine  hundred.  The  noise 
of  the  unprecedented  achievement  echoed  through 
the  college.  In  its  constellation  of  bad  examples 
a  new  star  had  blazed  out,  a  star  of  the  first  mag 
nitude. 

Bladen  Scarborough  had  used  his  surplus  to 
improve  and  extend  his  original  farm.  But  farms 
were  now  practically  unsalable,  and  Hampden 
and  Arabella  were  glad  to  let  their  cousin  Ed — 
Ed  Warfield — stay  on,  rent  free,  because  with 
him  there  they  were  certain  that  the  place  wrould 
be  well  kept  up.  Hampden,  poor  in  cash,  had  in 
tended  to  spend  the  summer  as  a  book  agent.  In 
stead,  he  put  by  a  thousand  dollars  of  his  win 
nings  to  insure  next  year's  expenses  and  visited 
Pierson  at  his  family's  cottage  in  the  summer 
colony  at  Mackinac.  He  won  at  poker  there  and 
went  on  East,  taking  Pierson.  He  lost  all  he  had 
with  him,  all  Pierson  could  lend  him,  tele 
graphed  to  Battle  Field  for  half  his  thousand  dol 
lars,  won  back  all  he  had  lost  and  two  thousand 
besides. 

When  he  reappeared  at  Battle  Field  in  Septem 
ber  he  was  dazzling  to  behold.  His  clothes  were 
many  and  had  been  imported  for  him  by  the  Chi 
cago  agent  of  a  London  tailor.  His  shirts  and 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         103 

ties  were  in  patterns  and  styles  that  startled  Battle 
Field.  He  had  taken  on  manners  and  personal 
habits  befitting  a  "man  of  the  world"- — but  he  had 
not  lost  that  simplicity  and  directness  which  were 
as  unchangeably  a  part  of  him  as  the  outlines  of 
his  face  or  the  force  which  forbade  him  to  be 
idle  for  a  moment.  He  and  Pierson — Pierson 
was  pupil,  now — took  a  suite  of  rooms  over  a 
shop  in  the  town  and  furnished  them  luxuriously. 
They  had  brought  from  New  York  to  look  after 
them  and  their  belongings  the  first  English  man 
servant  Battle  Field  had  seen. 

Scarborough  kept  up  his  college  work ;  he  con 
tinued  regularly  to  attend  the  Literary  Society 
and  to  be  its  most  promising  orator  and  debater; 
he  committed  no  overt  act — others  might  break 
the  college  rules,  might  be  publicly  intoxicated 
and  noisy,  but  he  was  always  master  of  himself 
and  of  the  situation.  Some  of  the  fanatical 
among  the  religious  students  believed  and  said 
that  he  had  sold  himself  to  the  devil.  He  would 
have  been  expelled  summarily  but  for  Pierson — 
Pierson's  father  was  one  of  the  two  large  contrib 
utors  to  the  support  of  the  college,  and  it  was 
expected  that  he  would  will  it  a  generous  endow 
ment.  To  entrap  Scarborough  was  to  entrap  Pier- 


104  THE  COST 

son.  To  entrap  Pierson —  The  faculty  strove  to 
hear  and  see  as  little  as  possible  of  their  doings. 

In  the  college  Y.  M.  C.  A.  prayers  were  offered 
for  Scarborough — his  name  was  not  spoken,  but 
every  one  understood.  A  delegation  of  the  relig 
ious  among  his  faithful  fellow  barbs  called  upon 
him  to  pray  and  to  exhort.  They  came  away 
more  charmed  than  ever  with  their  champion,  and 
convinced  that  he  was  the  victim  of  slander  and 
envy.  Not  that  he  had  deliberately  deceived 
them,  for  he  hadn't ;  he  was  simply  courteous  and 
respectful  of  their  sincerity. 

"The  fraternities  are  in  this  somewhere,"  the 
barbs  decided.  "They're  trying  to  destroy  him 
by  lying  about  him."  And  they  liked  it  that  their 
leader  was  the  brilliant,  the  talked-about,  the 
sought-after  person  in  the  college.  When  he  stood 
up  to  speak  in  the  assembly  hall  or  the  Literary 
Society  they  always  greeted  him  with  several 
rounds  of  applause. 

To  the  chagrin  of  the  faculty  and  the  irrita 
tion  of  the  fraternities  a  jury  of  alumni  selected 
him  to  represent  Battle  Field  at  the  oratorical  con 
test  among  the  colleges  of  the  state.  And  he  not 
only  won  there  but  also  at  the  interstate  contest 
victory  over  the  orators  of  the  colleges  of 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY        105 

seven  western  states  in  which  public  speaking  was, 
and  is,  an  essential  part  of  higher  education.  His 
oratory  lacked  style,  they  thought  at  Battle 
Field.  It  was  the  same  then,  essentially,  as  it 
was  a  few  years  later  when  the  whole  western 
country  was  discussing  it.  He  seemed  to  depend 
entirely  .upon  the  inherent  carrying  power  of  his 
ably  constructed  sentences — like  so  many  arrows, 
some  flying  gracefully,  others  straight  and  swift, 
all  reaching  the  mark  at  which  they  were  aimed. 
In  those  days,  as  afterward,  he  stood  upon  the 
platform  almost  motionless;  his  voice  was  clear 
and  sweet,  never  noisy,  but  subtly  penetrating  and, 
when  the  sense  demanded  it,  full  of  that  mysteri 
ous  quality  which  makes  the  blood  run  more 
swiftly  and  the  nerves  tingle.  "Merely  a  talker, 
not  an  orator,"  declared  the  professor  of  elocu 
tion,  and  few  of  those  who  saw  him  every  day  ap 
preciated  his  genius  then.  It  was  on  the  subject- 
matter  of  his  oration,  not  on  his  "delivery,"  that 
the  judges  decided  for  him — so  they  said  and 
thought. 

In  February  of  this  resplendent  sophomore  year 
there  came  in  his  mail  a  letter  postmarked  Battle 
Field  and  addressed  in  printed  handwriting.  The 


106  THE  COST 

envelope  contained  only  a  newspaper  cutting— 
from  the  St.  Christopher  Republic : 

At  four  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon 
a  boy  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Dumont.  It  is  their  first  child,  the  first 
grandchild  of  the  Dumont  and  Gardiner 
families.  Mother  and  son  are  reported 
as  doing  well. 

Scarborough  spent  little  time  in  the  futile  effort 
to  guess  what  coward  enemy  had  sped  this  anony 
mous  shaft  on  the  chance  of  its  hitting  him.  His 
only  enemies  that  interested  him  were  those  within 
himself.  He  destroyed  envelope  and  clipping, 
then  said  to  Pierson:  "I  neglected  to  celebrate 
an  important  event  not  long  ago."  He  paused  to 
laugh — so  queerly  that  Pierson  looked  at  him 
uneasily.  "We  must  go  to  Chicago  to  celebrate 
it." 

"Very  good,"  said  Fred.  "We'll  get  Chalmers 
to  go  with  us  to-morrow." 

"No — to-day — the  four-o'clock  train — we've 
got  an  hour  and  a  half.  And  we'll  have  four  clear 
days." 

"But  there's  the  ball  to-night  and  I'm  down 
for  several  dances." 


A   THOROUGHBRED   RUNS   AWAY.        107 

"  We'll  dance  them  in  Chicago.  I've  never  been 
really  free  to  dance  before."  He  poured  out  a 
huge  drink.  "I'm  impatient  for  the  ball  to  be 
gin."  He  lifted  his  glass.  "To  our  ancestors," 
he  said,  ' '  who  repressed  themselves,  denied  them 
selves,  who  hoarded  health  and  strength  and  ca 
pacity  for  joy,  and  transmitted  them  in  great 
oceans  to  us — to  drown  our  sorrows  in !  " 

He  won  six  hundred  dollars  at  faro  in  a  club 
not  far  from  the  Auditorium,  Pierson  won  two 
hundred  at  roulette,  Chamlers  lost  seventy — the}' 
had  about  fourteen  hundred  dollars  for  their  four 
days'  ' '  dance. ' '  When  they  took  the  train  for  Bat 
tle  Field  they  had  spent  all  they  had  with  them 
— had  flung  it  away  for  dinners,  for  drives,  for 
theaters,  for  suppers,  for  champagne.  All  the  re 
turn  journey  Scarborough  stared  moodily  out  of 
the  car  window.  And  at  every  movement  that  dis 
turbed  his  clothing  there  rose  to  nauseate  him,  to 
fill  him  with  self-loathing,  the  odors  of  strong, 
sickening-sweet  perfumes. 

The  next  day  but  one,  as  he  was  in  the  woods 
near  Indian  Rock,  he  saw  Olivia  coming  toward 
him.  They  had  hardly  spoken  for  several  months. 
He  turned  to  avoid  her  but  she  came  on  after 
him. 


108  THE  COST 

"I  wish  to  talk  with  you  a  few  minutes,  Mr. 
Scarborough,"  she  said  coldly,  storm  in  her  brave 
eyes. 

"At  your  service,"  he  answered  with  strained 
courtesy.  And  he  walked  beside  her. 

"I  happen  to  know,"  she  began,  "that  they're 
going  to  expel  you  and  Fred  Pierson  the  next 
time  you  leave  here  without  permission." 

"Indeed!  You  are  very  kind  to  warn  me  of 
my  awful  danger."  He  looked  down  at  her  with 
a  quizzical  smile. 

"And  I  wish  to  say  I  think  it's  a  disgrace  that 
they  didn't  do  it  long  ago,"  she  went  on,  her  anger 
rising  to  the  bait  of  his  expression. 

"Your  opinions  are  always  interesting,"  he  re 
plied.  "If  you  have  nothing  further  I'll  ask  your 
permission  to  relieve  you  of " 

"No,"  she  interrupted.  "I've  not  said  what  I 
wished  to  say.  You're  making  it  hard  for  me.  I 
can't  get  accustomed  to  the  change  in  you  since 
last  year.  There  used  to  be  a  good  side  to  you, 
a  side  one  could  appeal  to.  And  I  want  to  talk 
about — Fred.  You're  ruining  him." 

"You  flatter  me."  He  bowed  mockingly.  "But 
I  doubt  if  he'd  feel  flattered." 

"I've  told  him  the  same  thing,  but  you're  too 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         109 

strong  for  me."  Her  voice  trembled;  she  stead 
ied  it  with  a  frown.  "I  can't  influence  him  any 
longer." 

"Really,  Miss  Shrewsbury " 

"Please!"  she  said.  "Fred  and  I  were  en 
gaged.  I  broke  it  last  night.  I  broke  it  because 
— you  know  why." 

Scarborough  flushed  crimson. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  he  was 
engaged." 

"I  know  you,  Hampden  Scarborough,"  Olivia 
continued.  "I've  understood  why  you've  been  de 
grading  yourself.  And  I  haven't  blamed  you— 
though  I've  wondered  at  your  lack  of  manhood." 

"You  are  imposing  on  my  courtesy,"  he  said 
haughtily. 

"I  can't  help  it.  You  and  I  must  talk  this  thing 
to  the  end.  You're  robbing  me  of  the  man  I 
love.  Worse  than  that,  you're  destroying  him, 
dragging  him  down  to  a  level  at  which  he  may 
stay,  while  you  are  sure  to  rise  again.  You've 
got  your  living  to  make — I  don't  agree  with  those 
who  think  you'll  become  a  professional  gambler. 
But  he — his  father's  rich  and  indulgent,  and — 
God  only  knows  how  low  he'll  sink  if  you  keep 
on  pushing  him." 


110  THE  COST 

"You  are  excited,  hysterical.  You  misjudge 
him,  believe  me,"  said  Scarborough,  gently. 

"No — I  know  he's  not  depraved — yet.  Do  you 
think  /  could  care  for  him  if  he  were?" 

"I  hope  so.    That's  when  he'd  need  it  most." 

Olivia  grew  red.  "Well,  perhaps  I  should.  I'm 
a  fool,  like  all  women.  But  I  ask  you  to  let  him 
alone,  to  give  his  better  self  a  chance." 

"Why  not  ask  him  to  let  me  alone — to  give  my 
better  nature  a  chance?" 

"You — laughing  at  me  in  these  circumstances! 
You  who  pretended  to  be  a  man,  pretended  to  love 
Pauline  Gardiner " 

He  started  and  his  eyes  blazed,  as  if  she  had 
cut  him  across  the  face  with  a  whip.  Then  he 
drew  himself  up  with  an  expression  of  insolent 
fury.  His  lips,  his  sharp  white  teeth,  were  cruel. 

She  bore  his  look  without  flinching. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "you  think  you  love  her. 
Yet  you  act  as  if  her  love  were  a  degrading  in 
fluence  in  your  life,  as  if  she  were  a  bad  woman 
instead  of  one  who  ought  to  inspire  a  man  to  do 
and  be  his  best.  How  ashamed  she'd  be  of  you, 
of  your  love,  if  she  could  see  you  as  you  are  now 
— the  tempter  of  all  the  bad  impulses  in  this  col 
lege." 


A  THOROUGHBRED   RUNS  AWAY         111 

He  could  not  trust  himself  to  reply.  He  was 
suffocating  with  rage  and  shame.  He  lifted  his 
hat,  walked  rapidly  away  from  her  and  went 
home.  Pierson  had  never  seen  him  in  an  ugly 
mood  before.  And  he,  too,  was  in  an  ugly  mood 
— disgusted  with  his  own  conduct,  angry  at  Scar 
borough,  whom  he  held  responsible  for  the  unpre 
cedented  excesses  of  this  last  trip  to  Chicago  and 
for  their  consequences. 

"What's  happened  ?"  he  asked  sourly.  "What's 
the  matter  with  you?" 

"Your  Olivia,"  replied  Scarborough,  with  a 
vicious  sneer,  "has  been  insulting  me  for  your 
sins.  She  is  a  shrew !  I  don't  wonder  you  dropped 
her." 

Pierson  rose  slowly  and  faced  him. 

"You  astonish  me,"  he  said.  "I  shouldn't  have 
believed  you  capable  of  a  speech  which  no  gentle 
man  could  possibly  utter." 

"You,  sitting  as  a  court  of  honor  to  decide 
what's  becoming  a  gentleman!"  Scarborough 
looked  amused  contempt.  "My  dear  Pierson, 
you're  worse  than  offensive — you  are  ridiculous." 

"No  man  shall  say  such  things  to  me — espec 
ially  a  man  who  notoriously  lives  by  his  wits." 

Scarborough  caught  him  up  as  if  he  had  been 


112  THE  COST 

a  child  and  pinned  him  against  the  wall.  "Take 
that  back,"  he  said,  "or  I'll  kill  you."  His  tone 
was  as  colorless  as  his  face. 

"Kill  and  be  damned,"  replied  Pierson,  cool  and 
disdainful.  "You're  a  coward." 

Scarborough's  fingers  closed  on  Pierson's 
throat.  Then  flashed  into  his  mind  that  warning 
which  demands  and  gets  a  hearing  in  the  wildest 
tempest  of  passion  before  an  irrevocable  act  can 
be  done.  It  came  to  him  in  the  form  of  a  re 
minder  of  his  laughing  remark  to  Pauline  when 
he  told  her  of  the  traditions  of  murder  in  his  fam 
ily.  He  released  Pierson  and  fled  from  the  apart 
ment. 

Half  an  hour  later  Pierson  was  reading  a  note 
from  him: 

"I've  invited  some  friends  this  evening.  I  trust 
it  will  be  convenient  for  you  to  absent  yourself. 
They'll  be  out  by  eleven,  and  then,  if  you  return, 
we  can  decide  which  is  to  stay  in  the  apartment 
and  which  to  leave." 

Pierson  went  away  to  his  fraternity  house  and 
at  half-past  eight  Scarborough,  Chalmers,  Jack 
Wilton  and  Brigham  sat  down  to  a  game  of 
poker.  They  had  played  about  an  hour,  the  cards 
steadily  against  Chalmers  and  Brighan? — the 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         113 

cards  were  usually  against  Brigham.  He  was  a 
mere  boy,  with  passionate  aspirations  to  be  con 
sidered  a  sport.  He  had  been  going  a  rapid 
gait  for  a  year.  He  had  lost  to  Scarborough  alone 
as  much  as  he  had  expected  to  spend  on  the  year's 
education. 

Toward  ten  o'clock  there  was  a  jack-pot  with 
forty-three  dollars  in  it  and  Brigham  was  betting 
wildly,  his  hands  and  his  voice  trembling,  his  lips 
shriveled.  With  a  sudden  gesture  Chalmers 
caught  the  ends  of  the  table  and  jerked  it  back. 
There — in  Brigham's  lap — were  two  cards. 

"I  thought  so!"  exclaimed  Chalmers.  "You 
dirty  little  cheat !  I've  been  watching  you." 

The  boy  looked  piteously  at  Chalmers'  sneering 
face,  at  the  faces  of  the  others.  The  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks.  "For  God's  sake,  boys/'  he 
moaned,  "don't  be  hard  on  me.  I  was  desperate. 
I've  lost  everything,  and  my  father  can't  give  me 
any  more.  He's  a  poor  man,  and  he  and  mother 
have  been  economizing  and  sacrificing  to  send  me 
here.  And  when  I  saw  I  was  ruined — God  knows, 
I  didn't  think  what  I  was  doing."  He  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  "Don't  be  hard  on  me,"  he 
sobbed.  "Any  one  of  you  might  have  done  the 
same  if  he  was  in  my  fix." 


114  THE  COST 

"You  sniveling  cur,"  said  Chalmers,  high  and 
virtuous,  "how  dare  you  say  such  a  thing!  You 
forget  you're  among  gentlemen " 

"None  of  that,  Chalmers,"  interrupted  Scar 
borough.  "The  boy's  telling  the  truth.  And  no 
body  knows  it  better  than  you"  This  with  a  sig 
nificant  look  into  Chalmers'  eyes.  They  shifted 
and  he  colored. 

"I  agree  with  Scarborough,"  said  Wilton.  "We 
oughtn't  to  have  let  the  boy  into  our  games.  We 
must  never  mention  what  has  happened  here  this 
evening." 

"But  we  can't  allow  a  card  sharp  to  masquerade 
as  a  gentleman,"  objected  Chalmers.  "I  confess, 
Scarborough,  I  don't  understand  how  you  can 
be  so  easy-going  in  a  matter  of  honor." 

"You  think  I  must  have  a  fellow-feeling  for 
dishonor,  eh?"  Scarborough  smiled  satirically. 
"I  suppose  because  I  was  sympathetic  enough  with 
you  to  overlook  the  fact  that  you  were  shy  on 
your  share  of  our  Chicago  trip." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  three  hundred  you  borrowed  of  Pierson 
when  you  thought  he  was  too  far  gone  to  know 
what  he  was  doing.  My  back  was  turned — but 
there  was  the  mirror." 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         115 

Chalmers'  sullen,  red  face  confirmed  Scar 
borough's  charge. 

"No,"  continued  Scarborough,  "we  gentlemen 
ought  to  be  charitable  toward  one  another's  dis 
covered  lapses."  He  seated  himself  at  his  desk 
and  wrote  rapidly : 

We,  the   undersigned,    exonerate    Edwin 
Brigham  of  cheating  in  the  poker  game  in 
Hampden  Scarborough's   rooms   on   Satur 
day  evening,  February  20,  18 — .     And  we 
pledge  ourselves  never  to  speak  of  the  mat 
ter  either  to  each  other  or  to  any  one  else. 
"I've  signed  first,"  said  Scarborough,  rising  and 
holding  the  pen  toward  Chalmers.     "Now,  you 
fellows  sign.     Chalmers!" 

Chalmers  signed,  and  then  Wilton. 
"Take  Chalmers  away  with  you,"  said  Scar 
borough  to  Wilton  in  an  undertone.    "I've  some 
thing  to  say  to  Brigham." 

When  they  were  gone  he  again  seated  himself 
at  his  desk  and,  taking  his  check-book,  wrote  a 
check  and  tore  it  out. 

"Now,  listen  to  me,  Brig,"  he  said  friendlily  to 
Brigham,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  stupor.  "I've 
won  about  six  hundred  dollars  from  you,  first 
and  last — more,  rather  than  less.  Will  that 


116  THE  COST 

amount  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting  straight?** 

"Yes,"  said  Brigham,  dully. 

"Then  here's  a  check  for  it.  And  here's  the 
paper  exonerating  you.  And — I  guess  you  won't 
play  again  soon." 

The  boy  choked  back  his  sobs. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  ever  came  to  do  it,  Scar 
borough.  Oh,  I'm  a  dog,  a  dog !  When  I  started 
to  come  here  my  mother  took  me  up  to  her  bed 
room  and  opened  the  drawer  of  her  bureau  and 
took  out  a  savings-bank  book — it  had  a  credit  of 
twelve  hundred  dollars.  'Do  you  see  that?'  she 
said.  'When  you  were  born  I  began  to  put  by  as 
soon  as  I  was  able — every  cent  I  could  from  the 
butter  and  the  eggs — to  educate  my  boy.  And 
now  it's  all  coming  true,'  she  said,  Scarborough, 

and  we  cried  together.  And "  Brigham 

burst  into  a  storm  of  tears  and  sobs.  "Oh,  how 
could  I  do  it!"  he  said.  "How  could  I!" 

"You've  done  wrong,"  said  Scarborough,  shak 
ily,  "but  I've  done  much  worse,  Eddie.  And  it's 
over  now,  and  everything'll  be  all  right." 

"But  I  can't  take  your  money,  Scarborough. 
I  must  pay  for  what  I've  done." 

"You  mean,  make  your  mother  pay.  No,  you 
ttfust  take  it  back,  Brigham.  I  owe  it  to  you — I 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         117 

owe  it  to  your  mother.  This  is  the  butter  and 
egg  money  that  I — I  stole  from  her." 

He  put  the  papers  into  the  boy's  pocket.  "You 
and  I  are  going  to  be  friends/'  he  went  on. 
"Come  round  and  see  me  to-morrow — no,  I'll  look 
you  up."  He  put  out  his  hand  and  held  Brig- 
ham's  hand  in  a  courage-giving  grasp.  "And — 
I  hope  I'll  have  the  honor  of  meeting  your  mother 
some  day." 

Brigham  could  only  look  his  feelings.  Soon 
after  he  left  Pierson  came.  His  anger  had  evap 
orated  and  his  chief  emotion  was  dread  lest  Scar 
borough  might  still  be  angry.  "I  want  to  take 

back "  he  began  eagerly,  as  soon  as  his  head 

was  inside  the  door. 

"I  know  you  do,  but  you  shan't,"  replied  Scar 
borough.  "What  you  said  was  true,  what  Olivia 
said  was  true.  I've  been  acting  like  a  black 
guard." 

"No,"  said  Pierson,  "what  I  said  was  a  dis 
graceful  lie.  Will  you  try  to  forget  it,  Scar 
borough  ?" 

"Forget  it?"  Scarborough  looked  at  his  friend 
with  brilliant  eyes.  "Never!  So  help  me  God, 
never!  It's  one  of  three  things  that  have  QC-» 
curred  to-day  that  I  must  never  forget" 


118  THE  COST 

'Then  we  can  go  on  as  before.  You'll  still  be 
my  friend?" 

"Not  still,  Fred,  but  for  the  first  time." 

He  looked  round  the  luxurious  study  with  a 
laugh  and  a  sigh.  "It'll  be  a  ghastly  job,  getting 
used  to  the  sort  of  surroundings  I  can  earn  for 
myself.  But  I've  got  to  grin  and  bear  it.  We'll 
stay  on  here  together  to  the  end  of  the  term — my 
share's  paid,  and  besides,  I'm  not  going  to  do  any 
thing  sensational.  Next  year — we'll  see." 

While  Pierson  was  having  his  final  cigarette 
before  going  to  bed  he  looked  up  from  his  book 
to  see  before  him  Scarborough,  even  more  tre 
mendous  and  handsome  in  his  gaudy  pajamas. 

"I  wish  to  register  a  solemn  vow,"  said  he, 
with  mock  solemnity  that  did  not  hide  the  seri 
ousness  beneath.  "Hear  me,  ye  immortal  gods ! 
Never  again,  never  again,  will  I  engage  in  any 
game  with  a  friend  where  there  is  a  stake.  I 
don't  wish  to  tempt.  I  don't  wish  to  be  tempted." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Pierson.  "You're 
simply  cutting  yourself  off  from  a  lot  of  fun." 

"I  have  spoken,"  said  Scarborough,  and  he 
withdrew  to  his  bedroom.  When  the  door  was 
closed  and  the  light  out  he  paused  at  the  edge  of 
the  bed  and  said :  "And  never  again,  so  long  as 


A  THOROUGHBRED  RUNS  AWAY         119 

he  wishes  to  retain  his  title  to  the  name  man,  will 
Hampden  Scarborough  take  from  anybody  any 
thing  which  he  hasn't  honestly  earned." 

And  when  he  was  in  bed  he  muttered :  "I  shall 
be  alone,  and  I  may  stay  poor  and  obscure,  but 
I'll  get  back  my  self-respect — and  keep  it- 
Pauline!" 


X. 

MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT. 

And   Pauline? — She   was   now   looking  back 
upon  the  first  year  of  her  married  life. 

She  had  been  so  brought  up  that  at  seventeen, 
within  a  few  weeks  of  eighteen,  she  had  only 
the  vaguest  notion  of  the  meaning  of  the  step 
she  was  about  to  take  in  "really  marrying"  John 
Dumont.  Also,  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  as 
possible  for  a  properly  constituted  woman  not  to 
love  her  husband.  It  was  clearly  her  duty  to 
marry  Jack;  therefore,  the  doubting  thoughts 
and  the  ache  at  the  heart  which  would  not  ease 
were  merely  more  outcroppings  of  the  same  evil 
part  of  her  nature  that  had  tempted  her  into 
deceiving  her  parents,  and  into  entangling  herself 
and  Scarborough.  She  knew  that,  if  she  were 
absolutely  free,  she  would  not  marry  Jack.  But 
she  felt  that  she  had  bartered  away  her  birthright 
of  freedom ;  and  now,  being  herself,  the  daughter 
of  her  father  and  her  mother,  she  would  honor 
ably  keep  her  bargain,  would  love  where  she 

120 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  121 

ought  to  love — at  seventeen  "I  will"  means  "I 
shall."  And  so — they  were  "really  married." 

But  the  days  passed,  and  there  was  no  sign  of 
the  miracle  she  had  confidently  expected.  The 
magic  of  the  marriage  vow  failed  to  transform 
her;  Pauline  Dumont  was  still  Pauline  Gardiner 
in  mind  and  in  heart.  There  was,  however,  a 
miracle,  undreamed  of,  mysterious,  overwhelm 
ing — John  Dumont,  the  lover,  became  John 
Dumont,  the  husband.  Beside  this  transforma 
tion,  the  revelation  that  the  world  she  loved  and 
lived  in  did  not  exist  for  him,  or  his  world  for 
her,  seemed  of  slight  importance.  She  had  not 
then  experience  enough  to  enable  her  to  see  that 
transformation  and  revelation  were  as  intimately 
related  as  a  lock  and  its  key. 

"It's  all  my  fault,"  she  told  herself.  "It  must 
be  my  fault."  And  Dumont,  unanalytic  and  self- 
absorbed,  was  amused  whenever  Pauline's  gentle 
ness  reminded  him  of  his  mother's  half-believed 
warnings  that  his  wife  had  "a  will  of  her  own, 
and  a  mighty  strong  one." 

They  were  back  at  Saint  X  in  August  and 
lived  at  the  Frobisher  place  in  Indiana  Street — 
almost  as  pretentious  as  the  Dumont  homestead 
and  in  better  taste.  Old  Mrs.  Dumont  had  gone 


122  THE  COST 

to  Chicago  alone  for  the  furnishings  for  her  own 
house ;  when  she  went  for  the  furnishings  for  her 
son's  house,  she  got  Mrs.  Gardiner  to  go  along — > 
and  Pauline's  mother  gave  another  of  her  many 
charming  illustrations  of  the  valuable  truth  that 
tact  can  always  have  its  own  way.  Saint  X  was 
too  keen-eyed  and  too  interested  in  the  new  Mrs. 
Dumont  to  fail  to  note  a  change  in  her.  It  was 
satisfied  with  the  surface  explanation  that  Europe 
in  general  and  Paris  in  particular  were  respon 
sible.  And  it  did  not  note  that,  while  she  had 
always  been  full  of  life  and  fond  of  company, 
she  was  now  feverish  in  her  restlessness,  inces 
santly  seeking  distraction,  never  alone  when  she 
could  either  go  somewhere  or  induce  some  one 
to  come  to  her. 

"You  must  be  careful,  my  dear,"  said  her 
mother-in-law,  as  soon  as  she  learned  that  she 
had  a  grandmotherly  interest  in  her  daughter-in- 
law's  health.  "You'll  wear  yourself  out  with  all 
this  running  about." 

Pauline  laughed  carelessly,  recklessly. 

"Oh,  I'm  disgustingly  healthy.  Nothing  hurts 
me.  Besides,  if  I  were  quiet,  I  think  I  should — 
explode!" 

Late  in  September  Dumont  had  to  go  to  New; 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  123 

York.  He  asked  her  to  go  with  him,  assuming 
that  she  would  decline,  as  she  had  visitors  com 
ing.  But  she  was  only  too  glad  of  the  chance 
to  give  her  increasing  restlessness  wider  range. 
They  went  to  the  Waldorf — Scarborough  and 
Pierson  had  been  stopping  there  not  a  week 
before,  making  ready  for  that  sensational  descent 
upon  Battle  Field  which  has  already  been  re 
corded.  The  first  evening  Dumont  took  her  to 
the  play.  The  next  morning  he  left  her  early 
for  a  busy  day  down-town — "and  I  may  not  be 
able  to  return  for  dinner.  I  warned  you  before 
we  left  Saint  X,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  from  break 
fast  in  their  sitting-room. 

"I  understand,'*  she  answered.  "You  needn't 
bother  to  send  word  even,  if  you  don't  wish.  I'll 
be  tired  from  shopping  and  shan't  care  to  go  out 
this  evening,  anyhow." 

In  the  afternoon  she  drove  with  Mrs.  Fanshaw, 
wife  of  one  of  Jack's  business  acquaintances — 
they  had  dined  at  the  Fanshaws'  when  they 
paused  in  New  York  on  the  way  home  from 
Europe.  Pauline  was  at  the  hotel  again  at  five; 
while  she  and  Mrs.  Fanshaw  were  having  tea 
together  in  the  palm  garden  a  telegram  was 
handed  to  her.  She  read  it,  then  said  to  Mrs. 


THE  COST 

Fanshaw:  "I  was  going  to  ask  you  and  your 
husband  to  dine  with  us.  Jack  sends  word  he 
can't  be  here,  but — why  shouldn't  you  come  just 
the  same?" 

"No — you  must  go  with  us,"  Mrs.  Fanshaw 
replied.  "We've  got  a  box  at  Weber  and  Fields', 
and  two  men  asked,  and  we  need  another  woman. 
I'd  have  asked  you  before,  but  there  wouldn't  be 
room  for  any  more  men." 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  had  to  insist  until  she  had 
proved  that  the  invitation  was  sincere;  then, 
Pauline  accepted — a  distraction  was  always  agree 
able,  never  so  agreeable  as  when  it  offered  itself 
unannounced.  It  was  toward  the  end  of  the 
dinner  that  Mrs.  Fanshaw  happened  to  say:  "I 
see  your  husband's  like  all  of  them.  I  don't  be 
lieve  there  ever  was  a  woman  an  American  man 
wouldn't  desert  for  business." 

"Oh,  I  don't  in  the  least  mind,"  replied  Pauline. 
"I  like  him  to  show  that  he  feels  free.  Why, 
when  we  were  in  Paris  on  the  return  trip  and 
had  been  married  only  two  months,  he  got  tangled 
up  in  business  and  used  to  leave  me  for  a  day — 
for  two  days,  once." 

At  Pauline's  right  sat  a  carefully  dressed  young 
man  whose  name  she  had  not  caught — she  learned 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT 

afterward  that  he  was  Mowbray  Langdon.  He 
was  now  giving  her  a  stare  of  amused  mock-* 
admiration.  When  he  saw  that  he  had  her  at-< 
tention,  he  said :  "Really,  Mrs.  Dumont,  I  can't 
decide  which  to  admire  most — your  trust  or  your 
husband's." 

Pauline  laughed — it  struck  her  as  ridiculous 
that  either  she  or  Jack  should  distrust  the  other. 
Indeed,  she  only  hazily  knew  what  distrust  meant, 
and  hadn't  any  real  belief  that  "such  things" 
actually  existed. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  party  was  driving  up 
to  Weber  and  Fields'.  Pauline,  glancing  across 
the  thronged  sidewalk  and  along  the  empty,  bril 
liantly  lighted  passage  leading  into  the  theater, 
saw  a  striking,  peculiar-looking  woman  standing 
at  the  box-office  while  her  escort  parleyed  with 
the  clerk  within.  "How  much  that  man  looks 
like  Jack,"  she  said  to  herself — and  then  she  saw 
that  it  was  indeed  Jack.  Not  the  Jack  she 
thought  she  knew,  but  quite  another  person,  the 
one  he  tried  to  hide  from  her — too  carelessly, 
because  he  made  the  common  mistake  of  under 
estimating  the  sagacity  of  simplicity.  A  glance 
at  the  woman,  a  second  glance  at  Dumont,  his 
flushed,  insolent  face  now  turned  full  front — and 


126  THE  COST 

she  knew  this  unfamiliar  and  hitherto-only-hinted 
Jack. 

The  omnibus  was  caught  in  a  jam  of  cars  and 
carriages;  there  were  several  moments  of  con 
fusion  and  excitement.  When  the  Fanshaw 
party  was  finally  able  to  descend,  she  saw  that 
Jack  and  his  companion  were  gone — the  danger 
of  a  scene  was  over  for  the  moment.  She 
lingered  and  made  the  others  linger,  wishing  to 
give  him  time  to  get  to  his  seats.  When  they 
entered  the  theater  it  was  dark  and  the  curtain 
was  up.  But  her  eyes,  searching  the  few  boxes 
visible  from  the  rear  aisle,  found  the  woman,  or, 
at  least,  enough  of  her  for  recognition — the  huge 
black  hat  with  its  vast  pale  blue  feather.  Pauline 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  the  Fanshaws* 
box  proved  to  be  almost  directly  beneath  the  box. 

If  she  had  been  a  few  years  older,  she  would 
have  given  its  proper  significance  to  the  curious 
fact  that  this  sudden  revelation  of  the  truth  about 
her  husband  did  not  start  a  tempest  of  anger  or 
jealousy,  but  set  her  instantly  to  sacrificing  at 
the  shrine  of  the  great  god  Appearances.  It  is 
notorious  that  of  all  the  household  gods  he  alone 
erects  his  altar  only  upon  the  hearth  where  the 
ashes  are  cold. 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT 

As  she  sat  there  through  the  two  acts,  she 
seemed  to  be  watching  the  stage  and  taking  part 
in  the  conversation  of  the  Fanshaws  and  their 
friends;  yet  afterward  she  could  not  recall  a 
single  thing  that  had  occurred,  a  single  word  that 
had  been  said.  At  the  end  of  the  last  act  she 
again  made  them  linger  so  that  they  were  the 
last  to  emerge  into  the  passage.  In  the  outside 
doorway,  she  saw  the  woman — just  a  glimpse  of 
a  pretty,  empty,  laughing  face  with  a  mouth 
made  to  utter  impertinences  and  eyes  that  invited 
them. 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  was  speaking — "You're  very 
tired,  aren't  you?" 

"Very,"  replied  Pauline,  with  a  struggle  to 
smile. 

"What  a  child  you  look !  It  seems  absurd  that 
you  are  a  married  woman.  Why,  you  haven't 
your  full  growth  yet."  And  on  an  impulse  of 
intuitive  sympathy  Mrs.  Fanshaw  pressed  her 
arm,  and  Pauline  was  suddenly  filled  with  grati 
tude,  and  liked  her  from  that  moment. 

Alone  in  her  sitting-room  at  the  hotel,  she  went 
up  to  the  mirror  over  the  mantel,  and,  staring 
absently  at  herself,  put  her  hands  up  mechanically 
to  take  out  her  hat-pins.  "No,  I'll  keep  my  hat 


128  THE  COST 

on,"  she  thought,  without  knowing  why.  And 
she  sat,  hat  and  wrap  on,  and  looked  at  a  book. 
Half  an  hour,  and  she  took  off  her  hat  and  wrap, 
put  them  in  a  chair  near  where  she  was  sitting. 
The  watched  hands  of  the  clock  crawled  wearily 
round  to  half-past  one,  to  two,  to  half-past  two, 
to  three — each  half-hour  an  interminable  stage. 
She  wandered  to  the  window  and  looked  down 
into  empty  Fifth  Avenue.  When  she  felt  that 
at  least  an  hour  had  passed,  she  turned  to  look 
at  the  clock  again — twenty-five  minutes  to  four. 
Her  eyes  were  heavy. 

"He  is  not  coming,"  she  said  aloud,  and,  leav 
ing  the  lights  on  in  the  sitting-room,  locked 
herself  in  the  bedroom. 

At  five  o'clock  she  started  up  and  seized  the 
dressing-gown  on  the  chair  near  the  head  of  the 
bed.  She  listened — heard  him  muttering  in  the 
sitting-room.  She  knew  now  that  a  crash  of 
some  kind  had  roused  her.  Several  minutes  of 
profound  silence,  then  through  the  door  came  a 
steady,  heavy  snore. 

The  dressing-gown  dropped  from  her  hand. 
She  slid  from  the  bed,  slowly  crossed  the  room, 
softly  opened  the  door,  looked  into  the  sitting- 
room.  A  table  and  a  chair  lay  upset  in  the 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  129 

middle  of  the  floor.  He  was  on  a  sofa,  sprawl 
ing,  disheveled,  snoring. 

Slowly  she  advanced  toward  him — she  was 
barefooted,  and  the  white  nightgown  clinging  to 
her  slender  figure  and  the  long  braid  down  her 
back  made  her  look  as  young  as  her  soul — the 
soul  that  gazed  from  her  fixed,  fascinated  eyes, 
the  soul  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  full  as  much  child 
as  woman  still.  She  sat  down  before  him  in  a 
low  chair,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin 
supported  by  her  hands,  her  eyes  never  leaving 
his  swollen,  dark  red,  brutish  face — a  cigar  stump, 
much  chewed,  lay  upon  his  cheek  near  his  open 
mouth.  He  was  as  absurd  and  as  repulsive  as  a 
gorged  pig  asleep  in  a  wallow. 

The  dawn  burst  into  broad  day,  but  she  sat 
on  motionless  until  the  clock  struck  the  half-hour 
after  six.  Then  she  returned  to  the  bedroom  and 
locked  herself  in  again. 

Toward  noon  she  dressed  and  went  into  the 
sitting-room.  He  was  gone  and  it  had  been  put 
to  rights.  When  he  came,  at  twenty  minutes  to 
one,  she  was  standing  at  the  window,  but  shq 
did  not  turn. 

"Did  you  get  my  note?"  he  asked,  in 
a  carefully  careless  tone.  He  went  on  to  an^ 


130  THE  COST 

swer  himself :  "No,  there  it  is  on  the  floor  just 
where  I  put  it,  under  the  bedroom  door.  No 
matter — it  was  only  to  say  I  had  to  go  out  but 
would  be  back  to  lunch.  Sorry  I  was  kept  so 
late  last  night.  Glad  you  didn't  wait  up  for  me — 
but  you  might  have  left  the  bedroom  door  open — 
it'd  have  been  perfectly  safe."  He  laughed  good- 
naturedly.  "As  it  was,  I  was  so  kind-hearted 
that  I  didn't  disturb  you,  but  slept  on  the  sofa." 

As  he  advanced  toward  her  with  the  obvious 
intention  of  kissing  her,  she  slowly  turned  and 
faced  him.  Their  eyes  met  and  he  stopped  short 
— her  look  was  like  the  eternal  ice  that  guards 
the  pole. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  theater  last  night,"  she  said 
evenly.  "And  this  morning,  I  sat  and  watched 
you  as  you  lay  on  the  sofa  over  there." 

He  was  taken  completely  off  his  guard.  With 
a  gasp  that  was  a  kind  of  groan  he  dropped  into 
a  chair,  the  surface  of  his  mind  strewn  with  the 
wreckage  of  the  lying  excuses  he  had  got  ready. 

"Please  don't  try  to  explain,"  she  went  on  in 
the  same  even  tone.  "I  understand  now  about — 
about  Paris  and — everything.  I  know  that — 
father  was  right." 

He  gave  her  a  terrified  glance — no  tears,  no 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  1311 

trace  of  excitement,  only  calmness  and  all  the 
strength  he  knew  was  in  her  nature  and,  in  addi 
tion,  a  strength  he  had  not  dreamed  was  there. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  he  asked  after  a 
long  silence. 

She  did  not  answer  immediately.  When  she 
did,  she  was  not  looking  at  him. 

"When  I  married  you  —  across  the  river  from 
Battle  Field,"  she  said,  "I  committed  a  crime 
against  my  father  and  mother.  This  is  —  my  pun 
ishment  —  the  beginning  of  it.  And  now  —  there'll 
be  the  —  the  —  baby  —  "  A  pause,  then  :  "I  must 
bear  the  consequences  —  if  I  can.  But  I  shall  not 
be  your  wife  —  never  —  never  again.  If  you  wish 
me  to  stay  on  that  condition,  I'll  try.  If  not  —  " 

"You  must  stay,  Pauline,"  he  interrupted.  "I 
don't  care  what  terms  you  make,  you  must  stay. 
It's  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  defend  myself  when 
you're  in  this  mood.  You  wouldn't  listen.  But 
you're  right  about  not  going.  If  you  did,  it'd 
break  your  father's  and  mother's  hearts.  I  admit 
I  did  drink  too  much  last  night,  and  made  a  fool 
of  myself.  But  if  you  were  more  experienced, 


He  thought  he  had  worked  his  courage  up  to 
the  point  where  he  could  meet  her  eyes.    He  tried 


133  THE  COST 

it.  Her  look  froze  his  flow  of  words.  "I  know 
that  you  were  false  from  the  beginning,"  she  said. 
"The  man  I  thought  you  were  never  existed— 
and  I  know  it.  We  won't  speak  of  this — ever — 
after  now.  Surely  you  can't  wish  me  to  stay?" 
And  into  her  voice  surged  all  her  longing  to  go, 
all  her  hope  that  he  would  reject  the  only  terms 
on  which  self-respect  would  let  her  stay. 

"Wish  you  to  stay?"  he  repeated.  And  he 
faced  her,  looking  at  her,  his  chest  heaving  under 
the  tempest  of  hate  and  passion  that  was  raging 
in  him — hate  because  she  was  defying  and  dic 
tating  to  him,  passion  because  she  was  so  beautiful 
as  she  stood  there,  like  a  delicate,  fine  hot-house 
rose  poised  on  a  long,  graceful  stem.  "No  wonder 
I  love  you!"  he  exclaimed  between  his  clenched 
teeth. 

A  bright  spot  burned  in  each  of  her  cheeks  and 
her  look  made  him  redden  and  lower  his  eyes. 
"Now  that  I  understand  these  last  five  months," 
she  said,  "that  from  you  is  an  insult." 

His  veins  and  muscles  swelled  with  the  fury  he 
dared  not  show;  for  he  saw  and  felt  how  dan 
gerous  her  mood  was. 

"I'll  agree  to  whatever  you  like,  Pauline,"  he 
said  humbly.  "Only,  we  mustn't  have  a  flare-up 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  133 

and  a  scandal.  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  about 
— about  anything  you  don't  want  to  hear." 

She  went  into  her  bedroom.  When,  after  half 
an  hour,  she  reappeared,  she  was  ready  to  go  down 
to  lunch.  In  the  elevator  he  stole  a  glance  at  her 
— there  was  no  color  in  her  face,  not  even  in  her 
lips.  His  rage  had  subsided ;  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself — before  her.  But  he  felt  triumphant  too. 

"I  thought  she'd  go,  sure,  in  spite  of  her  fear 
of  hurting  her  father  and  mother,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "A  mighty  close  squeak.  I  was  stepping 
round  in  a  powder  magazine,  with  every  word  a 

lit  match." 

*     *     *     * 

In  January  she  sank  into  a  profound  lassitude. 
Nothing  interested  her,  everything  wearied  her. 
As  the  time  drew  near,  her  mother  came  to  stay 
with  her;  and  day  after  day  the  two  women  sat 
silent,  Mrs.  Gardiner  knitting,  Pauline  motionless, 
hands  idle  in  her  lap,  mind  vacant.  If  she  had 
any  emotion,  it  was  a  hope  that  she  would  die  and 
take  her  child  with  her. 

"That  would  settle  everything,  settle  it  right," 
she  reflected,  with  youth's  morbid  fondness  for 
finalities. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  she  came  out  from 


134  THE  COST 

under  the  opiate,  she  lay  for  a  while,  open-eyed 
but  unseeing,  too  inert  to  grope  for  the  lost  thread 
of  memory.  She  felt  a  stirring  in  the  bed  beside 
her,  the  movement  of  some  living  thing.  She 
looked  and  there,  squeezed  into  the  edge  of  the 
pillow  was  a  miniature  head  of  a  little  old  man 
— wrinkled,  copperish.  Yet  the  face  was  fat — 
ludicrously  fat.  A  painfully  homely  face  with 
tears  running  from  the  closed  eyes,  with  an  open 
mouth  that  driveled  and  drooled. 

"What  is  it?"  she  thought,  looking  with  faint 
curiosity.  "And  why  is  it  here?" 

Two  small  fists  now  rose  aimlessly  in  the  air 
above  the  face  and  flapped  about;  and  a  very 
tempest  of  noise  issued  from  the  sagging  mouth. 

"A  baby,"  she  reflected.  Then  memory  came 
— "My  baby  I" 

She  put  her  finger  in  the  way  of  the  wandering 
fists.  First  one  of  them,  then  the  other,  awk 
wardly  unclosed  and  as  awkwardly  closed  upon 
it.  She  smiled.  The  grip  tightened  and  tight 
ened  and  tightened  until  she  wondered  how  hands 
so  small  and  new  could  cling  so  close  and  hard. 
Then  that  electric  clasp  suddenly  tightened  about 
her  heart.  She  burst  into  tears  and  drew  the  child 
against  her  breast.  The  pulse  of  its  current  of  life 


MRS.  JOHN  DUMONT  135 

was  beating  against  her  own — and  she  felt  it. 
She  sobbed,  laughed  softly,  sobbed  again. 

Her  mother  was  bending  anxiously  over  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  dearest?"  she  asked. 
"What  do  you  wish?" 

"Nothing!"  Pauline  was  smiling  through  her 
tears.  "Oh,  mother,  I  am  so  happy!"  she  mur 
mured. 

And  her  happiness  lasted  with  not  a  break,  with 
hardly  a  pause,  all  that  spring  and  all  that  sum 
mer — or,  so  long  as  her  baby's  helplessness  ab 
sorbed  the  whole  of  her  time  and  thought 


XI. 

YOUNG  AMERICA. 

When  Pierson,  laggard  as  usual,  returned  to 
Battle  Field  a  week  after  the  end  of  the  long  vaca 
tion,  he  found  Scarborough  just  establishing  him 
self.  He  had  taken  two  small  and  severely  plain 
rooms  in  a  quaint  old  frame  cottage,  one  story 
high,  but  perched  importantly  upon  a  bank  at  the 
intersection  of  two  much-traveled  streets. 

"What  luck?"  asked  Pierson,  lounging  in  on 
him. 

"A  hundred  days'  campaign;  a  thousand  dol 
lars  net,"  replied  the  book  agent.  "And  I'm  hard 
as  oak  from  tramping  those  roads,  and  I've 
learned — you  ought  to  have  been  along,  Pierson. 
I  know  people  as  I  never  could  have  come  to  know 
them  by  any  other  means — what  they  think,  what 
they  want,  how  they  can  be  reached." 

There  was  still  much  of  the  boy  in  Pierson's 
face.  But  Scarborough  looked  the  man,  devel 
oped,  ready. 

Pierson  wandered  into  the  bedroom  to  com 
plete  his  survey.  "I  see  you're  going  to  live  by 
136 


YOUNG   AMERICA  137 

the  clock,"  he  called  out  presently.  He  had  found, 
pasted  to  the  wall,  Scarborough's  schedule  of  the 
daily  division  of  his  time;  just  above  it,  upon  a 
shelf,  was  a  new  alarm  clock,  the  bell  so  big  that  it 
overhung  like  a  canopy.  "You  don't  mean  you're 
going  to  get  up  at  four  ?" 

"Every  morning — all  winter,"  replied  Scar 
borough,  without  stopping  his  unpacking.  "You 
see,  I'm  going  to  finish  this  year — take  the  two 
years  in  one.  Then  I've  registered  in  a  law  office 
— Judge  Holcombe's.  And  there's  my  speaking — 
I  must  practise  that  every  day." 

Pierson  came  back  to  the  sitting-room  and  col 
lapsed  into  a  chair.  "I  see  you  allow  yourself  five 
hours  for  sleep,"  he  said.  "It's  too  much,  old 
man.  You're  self-indulgent." 

"That's  a  mistake,"  replied  Scarborough. 
"Since  making  out  the  schedule  I've  decided  to 
cut  sleep  down  to  four  hours  and  a  half." 

"That's  more  like  it!" 

"We  all  sleep  too  much,"  he  continued.  "And 
as  I  shan't  smoke,  or  drink,  or  worry,  I'll  need 
even  less  than  the  average  man.  I'm  going  to  do 
nothing  but  work.  A  man  doesn't  need  much  rest 
from  mere  work." 

"What!    No  play?" 


138  THE  COST 

"Play  all  the  time.  I've  simply  changed  my 
playthings." 

Pierson  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  stared 
gloomily  at  his  friend. 

"Look  here,  old  man.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
let  Olivia  find  out  about  this  program." 

But  Olivia  did  hear  of  it,  and  Pierson  was  com 
pelled  to  leave  his  luxury  in  the  main  street  and 
to  take  the  two  remaining  available  rooms  at  Scar 
borough's  place.  His  bed  was  against  the  wall 
of  Scarborough's  bedroom — the  wall  where  the 
alarm  clock  was.  At  four  o'clock  on  his  first 
morning  he  started  from  a  profound  sleep. 

"My  bed  must  be  moved  into  my  sitting-room 
to-day,"  he  said  to  himself  as  soon  as  the  clamor 
of  Scarborough's  gong  died  away  and  he  could 
collect  his  thoughts.  But  at  four  o'clock  the  next 
morning  the  gong  penetrated  the  two  walls  as  if 
they  had  not  been  there.  "I  see  my  finish,"  he 
groaned,  sitting  up  and  tearing  at  his  hair. 

He  tried  to  sleep  again,  but  the  joint  pressure 
of  Olivia's  memory-mirrored  gray  eyes  and  of 
disordered  nerves  from  the  racking  gong  forced 
him  to  make  an  effort  to  bestir  himself.  Groaning 
and  muttering,  he  rose  and  in  the  starlight  looked 
from  his  window.  Scarborough  was  going  up  the 


YOUNG  AMERICA  139 

deserted  street  on  his  way  to  the  woods  for  his 
morning  exercise.  His  head  was  thrown  back 
and  his  chest  extended,  and  his  long  legs  were 
covering  four  feet  at  a  stride.  "You  old  devil  !'*' 
said  Pierson,  his  tone  suggesting  admiration  and 
affection  rather  than  anger.  "But  I'll  outwit 
you." 

By  a  subterfuge  in  which  a  sympathetic  doctor 
was  the  main  factor,  he  had  himself  permanently 
excused  from  chapel.  Then  he  said  to  Scar 
borough:  "You  get  up  too  late,  old  man.  My 
grandfather  used  to  say  that  only  a  drone  lies 
abed  after  two  in  the  morning,  wasting  the  best 
part  of  the  day.  You  ought  to  turn  in,  say,  at  half- 
past  nine  and  rise  in  time  to  get  your  hardest  work 
out  of  the  way  before  the  college  day  begins." 

"That  sounds  reasonable,"  replied  Scarborough, 
after  a  moment's  consideration.  "I'll  try  it." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Pierson  went  to  bed 
at  the  sound  of  Scarborough's  two-o'clock  rising 
gong  and  pieced  out  his  sleep  with  an  occasional 
nap  in  recitations  and  lectures  and  for  an  hour 
or  two  late  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  able  once 
more  to  play  poker  as  late  as  he  liked,  and  often 
had  time  for  reading  before  the  gong  sounded. 
And  Scarborough  was  equally  delighted  with  the 


140  THE  COST 

new  plan.    "I  gain  at  least  one  hour  a  'day,  per 
haps  two,"  he  said.     "Your  grandfather  was  a 


wise  man." 


Toward  spring,  Mills,  western  manager  of  the 
publishing  house  for  which  Scarborough  had  sold 
Peaks  of  Progress  through  Michigan,  came  to 
Battle  Field  to  see  him. 

"You  were  far  and  away  the  best  man  we  had 
out  last  year,"  said  he.  "You're  a  born  book 
agent." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Scarborough,  sincerely.  He 
appreciated  that  a  man  can  pay  no  higher  com 
pliment  than  to  say  that  another  is  master  of  his 
own  trade. 

"We  got  about  fifty  orders  from  people  who 
thought  it  over  after  you'd  tried  to  land  them  and 
failed — that  shows  the  impression  you  made.  And 
you  sold  as  many  books  as  our  best  agent  in  our 
best  field." 

"I'll  never  go  as  agent  again,"  said  Scar- 
,  borough.  "The  experience  was  invaluable — but 
sufficient." 

"We  don't  want  you  to  go  as  agent.  Our 
proposition  is  for  much  easier  and  more  dignified 
work." 

At  the  word  dignified,  Scarborough  could  not 


YOUNG   AMERICA  141 

restrain  a  smile.  "I've  practically  made  my  plans 
for  the  summer/'  he  said. 

"I  think  we've  got  something  worth  your  while, 
Mr.  Scarborough.  Our  idea  is  for  you  to  select 
abtmt  a  hundred  of  the  young  fellows  who' re 
working  their  way  through  here,  and  train  them 
in  your  methods  of  approaching  people.  Then 
you'll  take  them  to  Wisconsin  and  Minnesota  and 
send  them  out,  each  man  to  a  district  you  select 
for  him.  In  that  way  you'll  help  a  hundred  young 
men  to  earn  a  year  at  college  and  you'll  make  a 
good  sum  for  yourself — two  or  three  times  what 
you  made  last  summer." 

Scarborough  had  intended  to  get  admitted  to 
the  bar  in  June,  to  spend  the  summer  at  an  ap 
prenticeship  in  a  law  office  and  to  set  up  for  him 
self  in  the  fall.  But  this  plan  was  most  attractive 
— it  would  give  him  a  new  kind  of  experience  and 
would  put  him  in  funds  for  the  wait  for  clients. 
The  next  day  he  signed  an  advantageous  contract 
— his  expenses  for  the  summer  and  a  guaranty 
of  not  less  than  three  thousand  dollars  clear. 

He  selected  a  hundred  young  men  and  twelve 
young  women,  the  most  intelligent  of  the  five  hun 
dred  self-supporting  students  at  Battle  Field. 
Pierson,  having  promised  to  behave  himself,  was 


142  THE  COST 

permitted  to  attend  the  first  lesson.  The  scholars 
at  the  Scarborough  School  for  Book  Agents  filled 
his  quarters  and  overflowed  in  swarms  without 
the  windows  and  the  door.  The  weather  was  still 
cool ;  but  all  must  hear,  and  the  rooms  would  hold 
barely  half  the  brigade. 

"I  assume  that  you've  read  the  book,"  began 
Scarborough.  He  was  standing  at  the  table  with 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  book  agent  spread  upon 
it.  "But  you  must  read  it  again  and  again,  until 
you  know  what's  on  every  page,  until  you  have 
by  heart  the  passages  I'll  point  out  to  you."  He 
looked  at  Drexel — a  freshman  of  twenty-two, 
with  earnest,  sleepless  eyes  and  a  lofty  forehead; 
in  the  past  winter  he  had  become  acquainted  with 
hunger  and  with  that  cold  which  creeps  into  the 
room,  crawls  through  the  thin  covers  and  closes 
in,  icy  as  death,  about  the  heart.  "What  do  you 
think  of  the  book,  Drexel?" 

The  young  man — he  is  high  in  the  national 
administration  to-day — flushed  and  looked  un 
easy. 

"Speak  frankly.    I  want  your  candid  opinion." 

"Well,  I  must  say,  Mr.  Scarborough,  I  think 
it's  pretty  bad." 

"Thank    you,"    said    Scarborough;    and    he 


YOUNG   AMERICA  143 

glanced  round.  "Does  anybody  disagree  with 
Mr.  Drexel?" 

There  was  not  a  murmur.  Pierson  covered  his 
face  to  hide  his  smile  at  this  "jolt"  for  his  friend. 
In  the  group  round  one  of  the  windows  a  laugh 
started  and  spread  everywhere  except  to  seven  of 
the  twelve  young  women  and  to  those  near  Scar 
borough — they  looked  frightened. 

"I  expected  Mr.  Drexel's  answer,"  began  Scar 
borough.  "Before  you  can  sell  Peaks  of  Progress 
each  of  you  must  be  convinced  that  it's  a  book  he 
himself  would  buy.  And  I  see  you've  not  even 
read  it.  You've  at  most  glanced  at  it  with  un 
friendly  eyes.  This  book  is  not  literature,  gentle 
men.  It  is  a  storehouse  of  facts.  It  is  an  educa 
tional  work  so  simply  written  and  so  brilliantly 
illustrated  that  the  very  children  will  hang  over  its 
pages  with  delight.  If  you  attend  to  your  train^ 
ing  in  our  coming  three  months  of  preliminary 
work  you'll  find  during  the  summer  that  the 
book's  power  to  attract  the  children  is  its  strongest 
point.  I  made  nearly  half  my  sales  last  summer 
by  turning  from  the  parents  to  the  children  and 
stirring  their  interest." 

Pierson  was  now  no  more  inclined  to  smile  than 
were  the  pupils. 


1M  THE  COST 

"When  I  started  out,"  continued  Scarborough, 
"I,  too,  had  just  glanced  at  the  book  and  had 
learned  a  few  facts  from  the  prospectus.  And  I 
failed  to  sell,  except  to  an  occasional  fool  whom 
I  was  able  to  overpower.  Every  one  instinctively 
felt  the  estimate  I  myself  placed  upon  my  goods. 
But  as  I  went  on  the  book  gradually  forced  itself 
upon  me.  And,  long  before  the  summer  was 
over,  I  felt  that  I  was  an  ambassador  of  education 
to  those  eager  people.  And  I'm  proud  that  I  sold 
as  many  books  as  I  did.  Each  book,  I  know,  is  a 
radiating  center  of  pleasure,  of  thought,  of  as 
piration  to  higher  things.  No,  ladies  and  gentle 
men,  you  must  first  learn  that  these  eight  hundred 
pages  crowded  with  facts  of  history,  these  six 
hundred  illustrations  taken  from  the  best  sources 
and  flooding  the  text  with  light,  together  consti 
tute  a  work  that  should  be  in  all  humble  house 
holds." 

Scarborough  had  his  audience  with  him  now. 
"Never  sneer,"  he  said  in  conclusion.  "Sneering 
will  accomplish  nothing.  Learn  your  business, 
Put  yourself,  your  best  self,  into  it.  And  then 
you  may  hope  to  succeed  at  it." 

He  divided  his  pupils  into  six  classes  of  about 
twenty  each  and  dismissed  them,  asking  the 


YOUNG   AMERICA  145 

first  class  to  come  at  three  the  next  afternoon. 
The  young  men  and  young  women  went  thought 
fully  away;  they  were  revolving  their  initial 
lesson  in  the  cardinal  principle  of  success — en 
thusiasm.  When  the  two  friends  were  alone  Pier- 
son  said :  "Do  you  know,  I'm  beginning  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  you.  And  I  see  there  isn't  anything 
beyond  your  reach.  You'll  get  whatever  you 
want." 

Scarborough's  reply  was  a  sudden  look  of  de 
jection,  an  impatient  shrug.  Then  he  straightened 
himself,  lifted  his  head  with  a  lion-like  toss  that 
shook  back  the  obstinate  lock  of  hair  from  his 
forehead.  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's 
shoulder.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "because  I'm  de 
termined  to  want  whatever  I  get.  Good  fortune 
and  bad — everything  shall  be  grist  for  this  mill." 

Pierson  attended  next  day's  class  and  after 
ward  went  to  Olivia  with  an  account  of  it. 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  him  put  those  fellows 
through,  one  at  a  time.  I  tell  you,  he'll  teach  them 
more  in  the  next  three  months  than  they'll  learn 
of  the  whole  faculty.  And  this  summer  he'll  get 
every  man  and  woman  of  them  enough  to  pay 
their  way  through  college  next  year." 

"What  did  he  do  to-day?"  asked  Olivia.  Of  the 


146  THE  COST 

many  qualities  she  loved  in  Pierson,  the  one  she 
loved  most  was  his  unbounded,  unselfish  admira 
tion  for  his  friend. 

"He  took  each  man  separately,  the  others 
watching  and  listening.  First  he'd  play  the  part 
of  book  agent  with  his  pupil  as  a  reluctant  cus 
tomer.  Then  he'd  reverse,  and  the  pupil  as  agent 
would  try  to  sell  him  the  book,  he  pretending  to 
be  an  ignorant,  obstinate,  ill-natured,  close-fisted 
farmer  or  farmer's  wife.  It  was  a  liberal  educa 
tion  in  the  art  of  persuasion.  If  his  pupils  had 
his  brains  and  his  personality,  Peaks  of  Progress 
would  be  on  the  center-table  in  half  the  farm  par 
lors  of  Wisconsin  and  Minnesota  by  September." 

"//  they  had  his  personality,  and  if  they  had 
his  brains,"  said  Olivia. 

"Well,  as  it  is,  he'll  make  the  dumbest  ass  in 
the  lot  bray  to  some  purpose." 

In  September,  when  Scarborough  closed  his 
headquarters  at  Milwaukee  and  set  out  for  Indian 
apolis,  he  found  that  the  average  earnings  of  his 
agents  were  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars, 
and  that  he  himself  had  made  forty-three  hun 
dred.  Mills  came  and  offered  him  a  place  in  the 
publishing  house  at  ten  thousand  a  year  and  a 


YOUNG   AMERICA  147 

commission.  He  instantly  rejected  it.  He  had 
already  arranged  to  spend  a  year  with  one  of  the 
best  law  firms  in  Indianapolis  before  opening  an 
office  in  Saint  X,  the  largest  town  in  the  congres 
sional  district  in  which  his  farm  lay. 

"But  there's  no  hurry  about  deciding,"  said 
Mills.  "Remember — we'll  make  you  rich  in  a  few 
years." 

"My  road  happens  not  to  lie  in  that  direction," 
replied  Scarborough,  carelessly.  "I've  no  desire 
to  be  rich.  It's  too  easy,  if  one  will  consent  to 
give  money-making  his  exclusive  attention." 

Mills  looked  amused — had  he  not  known  Scar 
borough's  ability,  he  would  have  felt  derisive. 

"Money's  power,"  said  he.  "And  there  are 
only  two  ambitions  for  a  wide-awake  man — 
money  and  power." 

"Money  can't  buy  the  kind  of  power  I'd  care 
for,"  answered  Scarborough.  "If  I  were  to  seek 
power,  it'd  be  the  power  that  comes  through  abil 
ity  to  persuade." 

"Money  talks,"  said  Mills,  laughing. 

"Money  bellows,"  retorted  Scarborough,  "and 
bribes  and  browbeats,  bully  and  coward  that  it 
is.  But  it  never  persuades." 


148  THE  COST 

"I'll  admit  it's  a  coward." 

"And  I  hope  I  can  always  frighten  enough  of 
it  into  my  service  to  satisfy  my  needs.  But  I'm 
not  spending  my  life  in  its  service — no,  thank 
you!" 


XII. 

AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS. 

While  Scarborough  was  serving  his  clerkship 
at  Indianapolis,  Dumont  was  engaging  in  ever 
larger  and  more  daring  speculations  with  New 
York  as  his  base.  Thus  it  came  about  that  when 
Scarborough  established  himself  at  Saint  X,  Du-* 
mont  and  Pauline  were  living  in  New  York,  in  a 
big  house  in  East  Sixty-first  Street. 

And  Pauline  had  welcomed  the  change.  In 
Saint  X  she  was  constantly  on  guard,  always 
afraid  her  father  and  mother  would  see  below 
that  smiling  surface  of  her  domestic  life  which 
made  them  happy.  In  New  York  she  was  free 
from  the  crushing  sense  of  peril  and  restraint,  as 
their  delusions  about  her  were  secure.  There,  after 
she  and  he  found  their  living  basis  of  "let  alone," 
they  got  on  smoothly,  rarely  meeting  except  in  the 
presence  of  servants  or  guests,  never  inquiring 
either  into  the  other's  life,  carrying  on  all  nego 
tiations  about  money  and  other  household  matters 
through  their  secretaries.  He  thought  her  cold 
by  nature — therefore  absolutely  to  be  trusted. 

149 


150  THE  COST 

And  what  other  man  with  the  pomp  and  circum 
stance  of  a  great  and  growing  fortune  to  main 
tain  had  so  admirable  an  instrument  ?  "An  ideal 
wife/*  he  often  said  to  himself.  And  he  was  not 
the  man  to  speculate  as  to  what  was  going  on  in 
her  head.  He  had  no  interest  in  what  others 
thought;  how  they  were  filling  the  places 
he  had  assigned  them — that  was  his  only  concern. 

In  one  of  those  days  o>f  pause  which  come  now 
and  then  in  the  busiest  lives  she  chanced  upon 
his  letters  from  Europe  in  her  winter  at  Battle 
Field.  She  took  one  of  them  from  its  envelope 
and  began  to  read — carelessly,  with  a  languid 
curiosity  to  measure  thus  exactly  the  charge  in 
herself.  But  soon  she  was  absorbed,  her  mind 
groping  through  letter  after  letter  for  the  clue  to 
a  mystery.  The  Dumont  she  now  knew  stood 
out  so  plainly  in  those  letters  that  she  could  not 
understand  how  she,  inexperienced  and  infatuated 
though  she  then  was,  had  failed  to  see  the  perfect 
full-length  portrait.  How  had  she  read  romance 
and  high-mindedness  and  intellect  into  the  per 
sonality  so  frankly  flaunting  itself  in  all  its  narrow 
sordidness,  in  all  its  poverty  of  real  thought  and 
real  feeling? 

"And  there  was  Hampden  Scarborough  to  coi> 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  151 

trast  him  with "  With  this  thought  the  truth 

suddenly  stared  at  her,  made  her  drop  the  letter 
and  visibly  shrink.  It  was  just  because  Scar 
borough  was  there  that  she  had  been  tricked.  The 
slight  surface  resemblance  between  the  two  men, 
hardly  more  than  the  "favor"  found  in  all  men 
of  the  family  of  strong  and  tenacious  will,  had  led 
her  on  to  deck  the  absent  Dumont  with  the  man 
hood  of  the  present  Scarborough.  She  had  read 
Scarborough  into  Dumont's  letters.  Yes,  and — 
the  answers  she  addressed  and  mailed  to  Dumont 
had  really  been  written  to  Scarborough. 

She  tossed  the  letters  back  into  the  box  from 
which  they  had  reappeared  after  four  long  years. 
She  seated  herself  on  the  white  bear-skin  before 
the  open  fire;  and  with  hands  clasped  round  her 
knees  she  rocked  herself  slowly  to  and  fro  like 
one  trying  to  ease  an  intolerable  pain. 

Until  custom  dulled  the  edge  of  that  pain,  the 
days  and  the  nights  were  the  crudest  in  her  ap 
prenticeship  up  to  that  time. 

When  her  boy,  Gardiner,  was  five  years  old,  she 
got  her  father  and  mother  to  keep  him  at  Saint  X 
with  them. 

"New  York's  no  place,  I  think,  to  bring  up  and 
educate  a  boy  in  the  right  way,"  she;  explained. 


152  THE  COST 

And  it  was  the  truth,  though  not  the  whole  trutH. 
The  concealed  part  was  that  she  would  have  made 
an  open  break  with  her  husband  had  there  been 
no  other  way  of  safeguarding  their  all-seeing,  all- 
noting  boy  from  his  example. 

Before  Gardiner  went  to  live  with  his  grand 
parents  she  stayed  in  the  East,  making  six  or  eight 
brief  visits  "home"  each  year.  When  he  went 
she  resolved  to  divide  her  year  between  her 
pleasure  as  a  mother  and  her  obligation  to  her 
son's  father,  to  her  parents'  son-in-law — her  de 
votions  at  the  shrine  of  Appearances. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year  she  was  twenty- 
five— eight  years  and  a  half  after  she  left  Battle 
Field — that  Hampden  Scarborough  reappeared 
upon  the  surface  of  her  life. 

On  a  September  afternoon  in  that  year  Olivia, 
descending  from  the  train  at  Saint  X,  was  almost 
as  much  embarrassed  as  pleased  by  her  changed 
young  cousin  rushing  at  her  with  great  energy — 
"Dear,  dear  Olivia !  And  hardly  any  different — 
how's  the  baby  ?  No — not  Fred,  but  Fred  Junior, 
I  mean.  In  some  ways  you  positively  look 
younger.  You  know,  you  were  so  serious  at  col- 
lege!" 

"But  you — I  don't  quite  understand  how  any 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS 

one  can  be  so  changed,  yet — recognizable.  I 
guess  it's  the  plumage.  You're  in  a  new  edition — 
an  edition  de  luxe." 

Pauline's  dressmakers  were  bringing  out 
the  full  value  of  her  height  and  slender,  graceful 
strength.  Her  eyes,  full  of  the  same  old  frank 
ness  and  courage,  now  had  experience  in  them, 
too.  She  was  wearing  her  hair  so  that  it  fell  from 
her  brow  in  two  sweeping  curves  reflecting  the 
light  in  sparkles  and  flashes.  Her  manner  was  still 
simple  and  genuine — the  simplicity  and  genuine 
ness  of  knowledge  now,  not  of  innocence.  Ex 
tremes  meet — but  they  remain  extremes.  Her 
"plumage"  was  a  fashionable  dress  of  pale  blue 
cloth,  a  big  beplumed  hat  to  match,  a  chiffon  para* 
sol  like  an  azure  cloud,  at  her  throat  a  sapphire 
pendant,  about  her  neck  and  swinging  far  below 
her  waist  a  chain  of  sapphires. 

"And  the  plumage  just  suits  her,"  thought 
Olivia.  For  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  cousin 
had  more  than  ever  the  quality  she  most  admired 
— the  quality  of  individuality,  of  distinction. 
Even  in  her  way  of  looking  clean  and  fresh  she 
was  different,  as  if  those  prime  feminine  essen 
tials  were  in  her  not  matters  of  frequent  reac- 


154  THE  COST 

quirement  but  inherent  and  inalienable,  like  her 
brilliance  of  eyes  and  smoothness  of  skin. 

Olivia  felt  a  slight  tugging  at  the  bag  she  was 
carrying.  She  looked — an  English  groom  in  spot 
less  summer  livery  was  touching  his  hat  in  re 
spectful  appeal  to  her  to  let  go.  "Give  Albert 
your  checks,  too,"  said  Pauline,  putting  her  arm 
around  her  cousin's  waist  to  escort  her  down  the 
platform.  At  the  entrance,  with  a  group  of  sta 
tion  loungers  gaping  at  it,  was  a  phaeton-victoria 
lined  with  some  cream-colored  stuff  like  silk,  the 
horses  and  liveried  coachman  rigid.  "She's  giving 
Saint  X  a  good  deal  to  talk  about,"  thought 
Olivia. 

"Home,  please,  by  the  long  road,"  said  Pauline 
to  the  groom,  and  he  sprang  to  the  box  beside  the 
coachman,  and  they  were  instantly  in  rapid  mo 
tion.  "That'll  let  us  have  twenty  minutes  more 
together,"  she  went  on  to  Olivia.  "There  are 
several  people  stopping  at  the  house." 

The  way  led  through  Munroe  Avenue,  the  main 
street  of  Saint  X.  Olivia  was  astonished  at  the 
changes — the  town  of  nine  years  before  spread 
and  remade  into  an  energetic  city  of  twenty-rive 
thousand. 

"Fred  told  me  I'd  hardly  recognize  it,"  said 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  155 

she,  "but  I  didn't  expect  this.  It's  another  proof 
how  far-sighted  Hampden  Scarborough  is.  Every 
body  advised  him  against  coming  here,  but  he 
would  come.  And  the  town  has  grown,  and  at 
the  same  time  he's  had  a  clear  field  to  make  a  big 
reputation  as  a  lawyer  in  a  few  years,  not  to  speak 
of  the  power  he's  got  in  politics." 

"But  wouldn't  he  have  won  no  matter  where 
he  was?"  suggested  Pauline. 

"Sooner  or  later — but  not  so  soon,"  replied 
Olivia. 

"No— a  tree  doesn't  have  to  grow  so  tall  among 
a  lot  of  bushes  before  it's  noticed  as  it  does  in  a 
forest." 

"And  you've  never  seen  him  since  Battle 
Field  ?"  As  Olivia  put  this  question  she  watched 
her  cousin  narrowly  without  seeming  to  do  so. 

"But,"  replied  Pauline — and  Olivia  thought 
that  both  her  face  and  her  tone  were  a  shade  off 
the  easy  and  the  natural — "since  he  came  I've 
been  living  in  New  York  and  haven't  stayed  here 
longer  than  a  few  days  until  this  summer.  And 
he's  been  in  Europe  since  April.  No,"  she  went 
on,  "I've  not  seen  a  soul  from  Battle  Field.  It's 
been  like  a  painting,  finished  and  hanging  on  the 


156  THE  COST 

wall  one  looks  toward  oftenest,  and  influencing 
one's  life  every  day." 

They  talked  on  of  Battle  Field,  of  the  boys  and 
-girls  they  had  known — how  Thiebaud  was  dead 
and  Mollie  Crittenden  had  married  the  man  who 
was  governor  of  California ;  what  Howe  was  not 
doing,  the  novels  Chamberlayne  was  writing ;  the 
big  women's  college  in  Kansas  that  Grace  Whar- 
ton  was  vice-president  of.  Then  of  Pierson — in 
the  state  senate  and  in  a  fair  way  to  get  to  Con 
gress  the  next  year.  Then  Scarborough  again — 
how  he  had  distanced  all  the  others ;  how  he  might 
have  the  largest  practice  in  the  state  if  he  would 
take  the  sort  of  clients  most  lawyers  courted  assid 
uously;  how  strong  he  was  in  politics  in  spite  of 
the  opposition  of  the  professionals — strong  be 
cause  he  had  a  genius  for  organization  and  also 
had  the  ear  and  the  confidence  of  the  people  and 
the  enthusiastic  personal  devotion  of  the  young 
men  throughout  the  state.  Olivia,  more  of  a  poli 
tician  than  Fred  even,  knew  the  whole  story ;  and 
Pauline  listened  appreciatively.  Few  indeed  are 
the  homes  in  strenuously  political  Indiana  where 
politics  is  not  the  chief  subject  of  conversation, 
and  Pauline  had  known  about  parties  and  cam- 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  157 

paigns  as  early  as  she  had  known  about  dolls  and 
dresses. 

"But  you  must  have  heard  most  of  this,"  said 
Olivia,  "from  people  here  in  Saint  X." 

"Some  of  it — from  father  and  mother,"  Pauline 
answered.  "They're  the  only  people  I've  seen 
really  to  talk  to  on  my  little  visits.  They  know 
him  very  well  indeed.  I  think  mother  admires 
him  almost  as  much  as  you  do.  Here's  our  place," 
she  added,  the  warmth  fading  from  her  face  as 
from  a  spring  landscape  when  the  shadow  of  the 
dusk  begins  to  creep  over  it. 

They  were  in  the  grounds  of  the  Eyrie — the 
elder  Dumont  was  just  completing  it  when  he 
died  early  in  the  previous  spring.  His  widow 
went  abroad  to  live  with  her  daughter  and  her 
sister  in  Paris;  so  her  son  and  his  wife  had  taken 
it.  It  was  a  great  rambling  stone  house  that  hung 
upon  and  in  a  lofty  bluff.  From  its  windows  and 
verandas  and  balconies  could  be  seen  the  pano 
rama  of  Saint  Christopher.  To  the  left  lay  the 
town,  its  ugly  part — its  factories  and  railway 
yards — hidden  by  the  jut  of  a  hill.  Beneath  and  be 
yond  to  the  right,  the  shining  river  wound  among 
fields  brown  where  the  harvests  had  been  gathered,, 
green  and  white  where  myriads  of  graceful 


158  THE  COST 

tassels  waved  above  acres  on  acres  of  Indian  corn. 
And  the  broad  leaves  sent  up  through  the  murmur 
of  the  river  a  rhythmic  rustling  like  a  sigh  of  con 
tent.  Once  in  a  while  a  passing  steamboat  made 
the  sonorous  cry  of  its  whistle  and  the  melodious 
beat  of  its  paddles  echo  from  hill  to  hill.  Between 
the  house  and  the  hilltop  highway  lay  several  hun 
dred  acres  of  lawn  and  garden  and  wood. 

The  rooms  of  the  Eyrie  and  its  well-screened 
verandas  were  in  a  cool  twilight,  though  the  Sep 
tember  sun  was  hot. 

"They're  all  out,  or  asleep,"  said  Pauline,  as  she 
and  Olivia  entered  the  wide  reception  hall.  "Let's 
have  tea  on  the  east  veranda.  Its  view  isn't  so 
good,  but  we'll  be  cooler,  You'd  like  to  go  to 
your  room  first?" 

Olivia  said  she  was  comfortable  as  she  was  and 
needed  the  tea.  So  they  went  on  through  the 
splendidly-furnished  drawing-room  and  were  go 
ing  through  the  library  when  Olivia  paused  before 
a  portrait — "Your  husband,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Pauline,  standing  behind  her 
cousin.  "We  each  had  one  done  in  Paris." 

"What  a  masterful  face!"  said  Olivia.  "I've 
never  seen  a  better  forehead."  And  she  thought, 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  159 

"He's  of  the  same  type  as  Scarborough,  except — 
\vhat  is  it  I  dislike  in  his  expression  ?" 

"Do  you  notice  a  resemblance  to  any  one  you 
know  ?"  asked  Pauline. 

"Ye-e-s,"  replied  Olivia,  coloring.  "I 
think " 

"Scarborough,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  Olivia. 

After  a  pause  Pauline  said  ambiguously :  "The 
resemblance  is  stronger  there  than  in  life." 

Olivia  glanced  at  her  and  was  made  vaguely 
uneasy  by  the  look  she  was  directing  at  the  face 
of  the  portrait.  But  though  Pauline  must  have 
seen  that  she  was  observed,  she  did  not  change 
expression.  They  went  out  upon  the  east  veranda 
and  Olivia  stood  at  the  railing.  She  hardly  noted 
the  view  in  the  press  of  thoughts  roused  by  the 
hints  of  what  was  behind  the  richly  embroidered 
curtain  of  her  cousin's  life. 

All  along  the  bluff,  some  exposed,  some  half 
hid  by  dense  foliage,  were  the  pretentious  houses 
of  the  thirty  or  forty  families  who  had  grown  rich 
through  the  industries  developed  within  the  past 
ten  years.  Two  foreign-looking  servants  in  for 
eign-looking  house-liveries  were  bringing  a  table 
on  which  was  an  enormous  silver  tray  with  a  tea- 


160  THE  COST 

service  of  antique  silver  and  artistic  china.  As 
Olivia  turned  to  seat  herself  a  young  man  and 
a  woman  of  perhaps  forty,  obviously  from  the 
East,  came  through  the  doors  at  the  far  end  of  the 
long  porch.  Both  were  in  white,  carefully  dressed 
and  groomed ;  both  suggested  a  mode  of  life  whose 
leisure  had  never  been  interrupted. 

"Who  are  coming?"  asked  Olivia.  She  wished 
she  had  gone  to  her  room  before  tea.  These  people 
made  her  feel  dowdy  and  mussy. 

Pauline  glanced  round,  smiled  and  nodded, 
turned  back  to  her  cousin. 

"Mrs.  Herron  and  Mr.  Langdon.  She's  the 
wife  of  a  New  York  lawyer,  and  she  takes  Mr. 
Langdon  everywhere  with  her  to  amuse  her,  and 
he  goes  to  amuse  himself.  He's  a  socialist,  or 
something  like  that.  He  thinks  up  and  says  things 
to  shock  conservative,  conventional  people.  He's 
rich  and  never  has  worked — couldn't  if  he  would, 
probably.  But  he  denounces  leisure  classes  and 
large  fortunes  and  advocates  manual  labor  every 
day  for  everybody.  He's  clever  in  a  queer,  cynical 
way." 

A  Mrs.  Fanshaw,  also  of  New  York,  came  from 
the  library  in  a  tea-gown  of  chiffon  and  real  lace. 
All  were  made  acquainted  and  Pauline  poured  the 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  161 

tea.  As  Olivia  felt  shy  and  was  hungry,  she  ate 
the  little  sandwiches  and  looked  and  listened  and 
thought — looked  and  thought  rather  than  listened. 
These  were  certainly  well-bred  people,  yet  she  did 
not  like  them. 

"They're  in  earnest  about  trifles,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "and  trifle  about  earnest  things."  Yet 
it  irritated  her  to  feel  that,  though  they  would 
care  not  at  all  for  her  low  opinion  of  them,  she 
did  care  a  great  deal  because  they  would  fail  to 
appreciate  her. 

"They  ought  to  be  jailed,"  Langdon  was  drawl 
ing  with  considerable  emphasis. 

"Who,  Mr.  Langdon?"  inquired  Mrs.  Fanshaw 
— she  had  been  as  abstracted  as  Olivia.  "You've 
been  filling  the  jails  rapidly  to-day,  and  hanging 
not  a  few." 

Mrs.  Herron  laughed.  "He  says  your  husband 
and  Mrs.  Dumont's  and  mine  should  be  locked  up 
as  conspirators." 

"Precisely,"  said  Langdon,  tranquilly.  "They'll 
sign  a  few  papers,  and  when  they're  done,  what'll 
have  happened  ?  Not  one  more  sheep'll  be  raised. 
Not  one  more  pound  of  wool  will  be  shorn.  Not 
one  more  laborer'll  be  employed.  Not  a  single 
improvement  in  any  process  of  manufacture.  But, 


162  THE  COST 

on  the  other  hand,  the  farmer'll  have  to»  sell  his 
wool  cheaper,  the  consumer'll  have  to  pay  a  big 
ger  price  for  blankets  and  all  kinds  of  clothes,  for 
carpets — for  everything  wool  goes  into.  And 
these  few  men  will  have  trebled  their  fortunes 
and  at  least  trebled  their  incomes.  Does  any 
body  deny  that  such  a  performance  is  a  crime? 
Why,  in  comparison,  a  burglar  is  honorable  and 
courageous.  He  risks  liberty  and  life." 

"Dreadful!  Dreadful!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw,  in  mock  horror.  "You  must  go  at  once, 
Mowbray,  and  lead  the  police  in  a  raid  on  Jack's 
office."  " 

"Thanks — it's  more  comfortable  here."  Lang- 
don  took  a  piece  of  a  curious-looking  kind  of  hot 
bread.  "Extraordinary  good  stuff  this  is,"  he 
interjected;  then  went  on:  "And  I've  done  my 
duty  when  I've  stated  the  facts.  Also,  I'm  taking 
a  little  stock  in  the  new  trust.  But  I  don't  pose 
as  a  'captain  of  industry'  or  'promoter  of  civiliza 
tion.'  I  admit  I'm  a  robber.  My  point  is  the 
rotten  hypocrisy  of  my  fellow  bandits — no,  pick 
pockets,  by  gad !" 

Olivia  looked  at  him  with  disapproving  interest. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  present  at  a 
game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock  with  what  she 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  163 

regarded  as  fundamental  morals.  Langdon  noted 
her  expression  and  said  to  Pauline  in  a  tone  of 
contrition  that  did  not  conceal  his  amusement: 
"I've  shocked  your  cousin,  Mrs.  Dumont." 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Pauline.  "I'm  sure  we  all 
ought  to  be  shocked — and  should  be,  if  it  weren't 
you  who  are  trying  to  do  the  shocking.  She'll 
soon  get  used  to  you." 

"Then  it  was  a  jest?"  said  Olivia  to  Langdon. 

"A  jest  ?"  He  looked  serious.  "Not  at  all,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Pierson.  Every  word  I  said  was  true, 
and  worse.  They " 

"Stop  your  nonsense,  Mowbray,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Herron,  who  appreciated  that  Olivia  was  an 
"outsider."  "Certainly  he  was  jesting,  Mrs.  Pier- 
son.  Mr.  Langdon  pretends  to  have  eccentric 
ideas — one  of  them  is  that  everybody  with  brains 
should  be  put  under  the  feet  of  the  numskulls; 
another  is  that  anybody  who  has  anything  should 
be  locked  up  and  his  property  given  to  those  who 
have  nothing." 

"Splendid !"  exclaimed  Langdon.  And  he  took 
out  a  gold  cigarette  case  and  lighted  a  large,  ex 
pensive-looking  cigarette  with  a  match  from  a 
gold  safe.  "Go  on,  dear  lady!  Herron  should 
get  you  to  write  our  prospectus  when  we're  ready 


164  TH'f  COST 

to  unload  on  the  public.  The  dear  public !  How 
it  does  yearn  for  a  share  in  any  piratical  enterprise 
that  flies  the  snowy  flag  of  respectability."  He 
rose.  "Who'll  play  English  billiards?" 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Herron,  rising. 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Fanshaw. 

"Give  me  one  of  your  cigarettes,  Mowbray," 
said  Mrs.  Herron.  "I  left  my  case  in  my  room." 

Pauline,  answering  Olivia's  expression,  said  as 
soon  as  the  three  had  disappeared : 

"Why  not?  Is  it  any  worse  for  a  woman  than 
for  a  man?" 

"I  don't  know  why  not,"  replied  Olivia.  "There 
must  be  another  reason  than  because  I  don't  do  it, 
and  didn't  think  ladies  did.  But  that's  the  only 
reason  I  can  give  just  now." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Langdon?"  asked 
Pauline. 

"I  guess  my  sense  of  humor's  defective.  I  don't 
like  the  sort  of  jest  he  seems  to  excel  in." 

"I  fancy  it  wasn't  altogether  a  jest,"  said 
Pauline.  "I  don't  inquire  into  those  matters  any 
more.  I  used  to,  but — the  more  I  saw,  the  worse 
it  was.  Tricks  and  traps  and  squeezes  and — oh, 
business  is  all  vulgar  and  low.  It's  necessary,  I 
suppose,  but  it's  repulsive  to  me."  She  paused, 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  165 

then  added  carelessly,  yet  with  a  certain  deliber- 
ateness,  "I  never  meddle  with  Mr.  Dumont,  nor 
he  with  me." 

Olivia  wished  to  protest  against  Pauline's  view 
of  business.  But — how  could  she  without  seem 
ing  to  attack,  indeed,  without  attacking,  her 
cousin's  husband? 

Dumont  brought  Fanshaw  up  in  his  automobile, 
Herron  remaining  at  the  offices  for  half  an  hour 
to  give  the  newspapers  a  carefully  considered  ac 
count  of  the  much-discussed  "merger"  of  the  man 
ufacturers  of  low-grade  woolens.  Herron  had 
objected  to  any  statement.  "It's  our  private 
business,"  he  said.  "Let  them  howl.  The 
fewer  facts  they  have,  the  sooner  they'll 
stop  howling."  But  Dumont  held  firm  for 
publicity.  "There's  no  such  thing  as  a  private 
business  nowadays,"  he  replied.  "Besides,  don't 
we  want  the  public  to  take  part  of  our  stock? 
What's  the  use  of  acting  shady — you've  avoided 
the  legal  obstacles,  haven't  you?  Let's  tell  the 
public  frankly  all  we  want  it  to  know,  and  it'll 
think  it  knows  all  there  is  to  know." 

The  whole  party  met  in  the  drawing-room  at 
a  quarter-past  eight,  Langdon  the  last  to  come 
down — Olivia  was  uncertain  whether  or  not  she 


166  THE  COST 

was  unjust  to  him  when  she  suspected  design  in 
his  late  entrance,  the  handsomest  and  the  best- 
dressed  man  of  the  company. 

He  looked  cynically  at  Dumont.  "Well,  fellow 
pirate:  how  go  our  plans  for  a  merry  winter  for 
the  poor?" 

"Ass!"  muttered  Herron  to  Olivia,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  nearest  him.  "He  fancies  impudence 
is  wit.  He's  devoid  of  moral  sense  or  even  of 
decency.  He's  a  traitor  to  his  class  and  shouldn't 
be  tolerated  in  it." 

Dumont  was  laughingly  answering  Langdon 
in  his  own  vein. 

"Splendidly,"  he  replied,  "thanks  to  our  worthy 
chaplain,  Herron,  who  secures  us  the  blessing  and 
protection  of  the  law." 

"That  gives  me  an  appetite!"  exclaimed  Lang 
don.  "I  feared  something  might  miscarry  in  these 
last  hours  of  our  months  of  plotting.  Heaven  be 
praised,  the  people  won't  have  so  much  to  waste 
hereafter.  I'm  proud  to  be  in  one  of  the  many 
noble  bands  that  are  struggling  to  save  them  from 
themselves." 

But  Dumont  had  turned  away  from  him;  so 
he  dropped  into  Mrs.  Herron's  discussion  with 
Mrs.  Fanshaw  on  their  proposed  trip  to  the  Medi- 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  167 

terranean.  Dinner  was  announced  and  he  was  put 
between  Mrs.  Herron  and  Olivia,  with  Dumont  on 
her  right.  It  was  a  round  table  and  Olivia's  eyes 
lingered  upon  its  details — the  embroidered  cloth 
with  real  lace  in  the  center,  the  graceful  antique 
silver  candlesticks,  the  tall  vases  filled  with  enor 
mous  roses— everything  exquisitely  simple  and 
tasteful. 

Langdon  talked  with  her  until  Mrs.  Herron, 
impatient  at  his  neglect,  caught  his  eye  and  com 
pelled  his  attention.  Dumont,  seeing  that  Olivia 
was  free,  drew  her  into  his  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Fanshaw;  and  then  Mrs.  Fanshaw  began 
to  talk  with  Mr.  Herron,  who  was  eating  furi 
ously  because  he  had  just  overheard  Langdon 
say :  "That  was  a  great  day  for  pirates  when  they 
thought  of  taking  aboard  the  lawyers  as  chap 
lains/' 

All  the  men  were  in  high  spirits ;  Dumont  was 
boyish  in  his  exuberance.  When  he  left  home 
that  morning  he  was  four  times  a  millionaire ;  now 
he  was  at  least  twelve  times  a  millionaire,  through 
the  magic  of  the  "merger."  True,  eight  of  the 
twelve  millions  were  on  paper;  but  it  was  paper 
that  would  certainly  pay  dividends,  paper  that 
would  presently  sell  at  or  near  its  face  value.  And 


168  THE  COST 

this  success  had  come  when  he  was  only  thirty- 
four.  His  mind  was  already  projecting  greater 
triumphs  in  this  modern  necromancy  by  which 
millionaires  evoke  and  materialize  millions  from 
the  empty  air — apparently.  He  was  bubbling 
over  with  happiness — in  the  victory  won,  in  vic 
tories  to  be  won. 

Olivia  tried  him  on  several  subjects,  but  the 
conversation  dragged.  Of  Pauline  he  would  not 
talk;  of  Europe,  he  was  interested  only  in  the 
comfort  of  hotels  and  railway  trains,  in  the  com 
parative  merits  of  the  cooking  and  the  wines  in 
London  and  Paris.  But  his  face — alert,  shrewd, 
aggressive — and  his  mode  of  expression  made  her 
feel  that  he  was  uninteresting  because  he  was 
thinking  of  something  which  he  did  not  care  to 
expose  to  her  and  could  not  take  his  mind  from. 
And  this  was  the  truth.  It  was  not  until  she  ad 
ventured  upon  his  business  that  he  became  talk 
ative.  And  soon  she  had  him  telling  her  about 
his  "combine" — frankly,  boastfully,  his  face  more 
and  more  flushed,  for  as  he  talked  he  drank. 

"But,"  he  said  presently,  "this  little  matter  to 
day  is  only  a  fair  beginning.  It  seemed  big  until 
it  was  about  accomplished.  Then  I  saw  it  was 
only  a  suggestion  for  a  scheme  that'd  be  really 


AFTER  EIGHT  YEARS  169 

worth  while."  And  he  went  on  to  unfold  one  of 
those  projects  of  to-day's  commerce  and  finance 
that  were  regarded  as  fantastic,  delirious  a  few 
years  ago.  He  would  reach  out  and  out  for  hun 
dreds  of  millions  of  capital;  with  his  woolens 
"combine"  as  a  basis  he  would  build  an  enormous 
corporation  to  control  the  sheep  industry  of  the 
world — to  buy  millions  of  acres  of  sheep-ranges ; 
to  raise  scores  of  millions  of  sheep;  to  acquire  and 
to  construct  hundreds  of  plants  for  utilizing  every 
part  of  the  raw  product  of  the  ranges;  to  sell 
wherever  the  human  race  had  or  could  have  a 
market. 

Olivia  was  ambitious  herself,  usually  was  de 
lighted  by  ambition  in  others.  But  his  exhibit 
of  imagination  and  energy  repelled  her,  even 
while  it  fascinated.  Partly  through  youth,  more 
through  that  contempt  for  concealment  which 
characterizes  the  courageous  type  of  large  man,  he 
showed  himself  to  her  just  as  he  was.  And  she 
saw  him  not  as  an  ambition  but  as  an  appetite,  or 
rather  a  bundle  of  appetites. 

"He  has  no  ideals,"  she  thought.  "He's  like  a 
man  who  wants  food  merely  for  itself,  not  for 
the  strength  and  the  intellect  it  will  build  up. 
And  he  likes  or  dislikes  human  beings  only  as  one 
likes  or  dislikes  different  things  to  eat." 


170  THE  COST 

' 'It'll  take  you  years  and  years,"  she  said  to  him, 
because  she  must  say  something. 

"Not  at  all."  He  waved  his  hand— Olivia 
thought  it  looked  as  much  like  a  claw  as  like  a 
hand.  "It's  a  sky-scraper,  but  we  build  sky 
scrapers  overnight.  Time  and  space  used  to  be 
the  big  elements.  We  practically  disregard  them." 
He  followed  this  with  a  self-satisfied  laugh  and 
an  emptying  of  his  champagne  glass  at  a  gulp. 

The  women  were  rising  to  withdraw.  After 
half  an  hour  Langdon  and  Herron  joined  them. 
Dumont  and  Fanshaw  did  not  come  until  eleven 
o'clock.  Then  Diamont  was  so  abrupt  and  surly 
that  every  one  was  grateful  to  Mrs.  Fanshaw  for 
taking  him  away  to  the  west  veranda.  At  mid 
night  all  went  to  their  rooms,  Pauline  going  with 
Olivia,  "to  make  sure  you  haven't  been  neglected." 

She  lingered  until  after  one,  and  when  they 
kissed  each  the  other  good  night,  she  said :  "It's 
done  me  a  world  of  good  to  see  you,  'Livia — more 
even  than  I  hoped.  I  knew  you'd  be  sympathetic 
with  me  where  you  understood.  Now,  I  feel  that 
you're  sympathetic  where  you  don't  understand, 
too.  And  it's  there  that  one  really  needs  sym 
pathy." 

"That's  what  friendship  means — and — love/' 
said  Olivia. 


XIII. 

"MY  SISTER-IN-LAW,  GLADYS." 

The  following  afternoon  Dumont  took  the  Her- 
rons,  the  Fanshaws  and  Langdon  back  to  New 
York  in  his  private  car,  and  for  three  days  Olivia 
and  Pauline  had  the  Eyrie  to  themselves.  Olivia 
was  about  to  write  to  Scarborough,  asking  him  to 
call,  when  she  saw  in  the  News-Bulletin  that  he 
had  gone  to  Denver  to  speak.  A  week  after  she 
left,  Dumont  returned,  bringing  his  sister  Gladys, 
just  arrived  from  Europe,  and  Langdon.  He 
stayed  four  days,  took  Langdon  away  with  him 
and  left  Gladys. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Scarborough,  riding 
into  Colonel  Gardiner's  grounds  one  hot  ;ifter- 
noon  in  mid  September,  saw  a  phaeton-victoria 
with  two  women  in  it  coming  toward  him  on  its 
way  out.  He  drew  his  horse  aside  to  make  room. 
He  was  conscious  that  there  were  two  women; 
he  saw  only  one — she  who  was  all  in  white  except 
the  scarlet  poppies  against  the  brim  of  her  big 

white  hat. 

171 


172  THE  COST 

As  he  bowed  the  carriage  stopped  and  Pauline 
said  cordially:  "Why,  how  d'ye  do?" 

He  drew  His  horse  close  to  the  carriage  and  they 
shook  hands.  She  introduced  the  other  woman 
— "My  sister-in-law,  Gladys  Dumont" — then  went 
on:  "We've  been  lunching  and  spending  the 
afternoon  with  father  and  mother.  They  told  us 
you  returned  this  morning." 

"I  supposed  you  were  in  the  East,"  said  Scar 
borough — the  first  words  he  had  spoken. 

"Oh — I'm  living  here  now — Gladys  and  I. 
Father  says  you  never  go  anywhere,  but  I  hope 
you'll  make  an  exception  for  us." 

"Thank  you— I'll  be  glad  to  call." 

"Why  not  dine  with  us — day  after  to-morrow 
night?" 

"I'd  like  that— certainly,  I'll  come." 

"We  dine  at  half-past  eight — at  least  we're  sup* 
posed  to." 

Scarborough  lifted  his  hat. 

The  carriage  drove  on. 

"Why,  he's  not  a  bit  as  I  expected,"  Gladys 
began  at  once.  "He's  much  younger.  Isn't  he 
handsome !  That's  the  way  a  man  ought  to  look. 
He's  not  married?" 

"No,"  replied  Pauline. 


"MY  SISTER-IN-LAW,  GLADYS"  173 

".Why  did  you  look  so  queer  when  you  first 
caught  sight  of  him?" 

"Did  I  ?"  Pauline  replied  tranquilly.  "Probably 
it  was  because  he  very  suddenly  and  vividly 
brought  Battle  Field  back  to  me — that  was  the 
happiest  time  of  my  life.  But  I  was  too  young 
or  too  foolish,  or  both,  to  know  it  till  long  after 
ward.  At  seventeen  one  takes  happiness  for 
granted." 

"Did  he  look  then  as  he  does  now?" 

"No — and  yes,"  said  Pauline.  "He  was  just 
from  the  farm  and  dressed  badly  and  was  awk 
ward  at  times.  But — really  he  was  the  same  per 
son.  I  guess  it  was  the  little  change  in  him  that 
startled  me."  And  she  became  absorbed  in  her 
thoughts. 

"I  hope  you'll  send  him  in  to  dinner  with  me," 
said  Gladys,  presently. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Pauline,  absently. 

"I  was  talking  of  Mr.  Scarborough.  I  asked  if 
you  wouldn't  send  him  in  to  dinner  with  me — un 
less  you  want  to  discuss  old  times  with  him." 

"Yes — certainly — if  you  wish." 

And  Pauline  gave  Scarborough  to  Gladys  and 
did  her  duty  as  hostess  by  taking  in  the  dullest 
man  in  the  party — Newnham.  While  Newnham 


THE  COST 

droned  and  prosed,  she  watched  Gladys  lay  herself 
out  to  please  the  distinguished  Mr.  Scarborough, 
successful  as  a  lawyer,  famous  as  an  orator,  de 
ferred  to  because  of  his  influence  with  the  rank 
and  file  of  his  party  in  the  middle  West. 

Gladys  had  blue-black  hair  which  she  wore 
pulled  out  into  a  sort  of  halo  about  her  small,  deli 
cate  face.  There  were  points  of  light  in  her  dark 
irises,  giving  them  the  look  of  black  quartz  in  the 
sunshine.  She  was  not  tall,  but  her  figure  was 
perfect,  and  she  had  her  dresses  fitted  immedi 
ately  to  it.  Her  appeal  was  frankly  to  the  senses, 
the  edge  taken  from  its  audacity  by  its  artistic 
effectiveness  and  by  her  ingenuous,  almost  inno 
cent,  expression. 

Seeing  Pauline  looking  at  her,  she  tilted  her 
head  to  a  graceful  angle  and  sent  a  radiant  glance 
between  two  blossom-laden  branches  of  the  green 
and  white  bush  that  towered  and  spread  in  the 
center  of  the  table.  "Mr.  Scarborough  says/' 
she  called  out,  "character  isn't  a  development,  it's 
a  disclosure.  He  thinks  one  is  born  a  certain  kind 
of  person  and  that  one's  life  simply  either  gives 
it  a  chance  to  show  or  fails  to  give  it  a  chance. 
He  says  the  boy  isn't  father  to  the  man,  but  the 


"MY  SISTER-IN-LAW,  GLADYS" 

miniature  of  the  man.  What  do  you  think, 
Pauline?" 

"I  haven't  thought  of  it,"  replied  Pauline.  "But 
I'm  certain  it's  true.  I  used  to  dispute  Mr.  Scar 
borough's  ideas  sometimes,  but  I  learned  better." 

As  she  realized  the  implications  of  her  careless 
remark,  their  eyes  met  squarely  for  the  first  time 
since  Battle  Field.  Both  hastily  glanced  away, 
and  neither  looked  at  the  other  again.  When  the 
men  came  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  join  the 
women,  Gladys  adroitly  intercepted  him.  When 
he  went  to  Pauline  to  take  leave,  their  manner 
each  toward  the  other  was  formal,  strained  and 
even  distant. 

Dumont  came  again  just  after  the  November 
election.  It  had  been  an  unexpected  victory  for 
the  party  which  Scarborough  advocated,  and 
everywhere  the  talk  was  that  he  had  been  the  chief 
factor — his  skill  in  defining  issues,  his  eloquence 
in  presenting  them,  the  public  confidence  in  his 
party  through  the  dominance  of  a  man  so  obvi 
ously  free  from  self-seeking  or  political  trickery 
of  any  kind.  Dumont,  to  whom  control  in  both 
party  machines  and  in  the  state  government  was 
a  business  necessity,  told  his  political  agent,  Mer- 


176  THE  COST 

riweather,  that  they  had  'let  Scarborough  go 
about  far  enough,"  unless  he  could  be  brought 
into  their  camp. 

"I  can't  make  out  what  he's  looking  for/'  said 
Merriweather.  "One  thing's  certain — he'll  do  us 
no  good.  There's  no  way  we  can  get  our  hooks 
in  him.  He  don't  give  a  damn  for  money.  And 
as  for  power — he  can  get  more  of  that  by  fighting 
us  than  by  falling  in  line.  We  ain't  exactly  popu 
lar." 

This  seemed  to  Dumont  rank  ingratitude.  Had 
he  not  just  divided  a  million  dollars  among  chari 
ties  and  educational  institutions  in  the  districts 
where  opposition  to  his  "merger"  was  strongest? 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  he  said.  "If  he  isn't  careful 
we'll  have  to  kill  him  off  in  convention  and  make 
the  committees  stop  his  mouth." 

"The  trouble  is  he's  been  building  up  a  follow 
ing  of  his  own — the  sort  of  following  that  can't 
be  honeyfugled,"  replied  Merriweather.  "The 
committees  are  afraid  of  him."  Merriweather 
always  took  the  gloomy  view  of  everything,  be 
cause  he  thus  discounted  his  failures  in  advance 
and  doubled  the  effect  of  his  successes. 

"I'll  see — I'll  see,"  said  Dumont,  impatiently. 
And  he  thought  he  was  beginning  to  "see"  when 


"MY  SISTER-IN-LAW,  GLADYS"  177 

Gladys  expanded  to  him  upon  the  subject  of 
Scarborough — his  good  looks,  his  wit,  his  "dis 
tinction." 

Scarborough  came  to  dinner  a  few  evenings 
later  and  Dumont  was  particularly  cordial  to  him ; 
and  Gladys  made  the  most  of  the  opportunity 
which  Pauline  again  gave  her.  That  night,  when 
the  others  had  left  or  had  gone  to  bed,  Gladys  fol 
lowed  her  brother  into  the  smoke-room  adjoin 
ing  the  library.  They  sat  in  silence  drinking  a 
"night-cap."  In  the  dreaminess  of  her  eyes,  in 
the  absent  smile  drifting  round  the  corners  of  her 
full  red  lips,  Gladys  showed  that  her  thoughts 
were  pleasant  and  sentimental, 

"What  do  you  think  of  Scarborough?"  her 
brother  asked  suddenly. 

She  started  but  did  not  flush — in  her  long 
European  experience  she  had  gained  control  of 
that  signal  of  surprise.  "How  do  you  mean?" 
she  asked.  She  rarely  answered  a  question  im 
mediately,  no  matter  how  simple  it  was,  but 
usually  put  another  question  in  reply.  Thus  she 
insured  herself  time  to  think  if  time  should  be 
necessary. 

"I  mean,  do  you  like  him?" 


178  THE  COST 

"Why,  certainly.  But  I've  seen  him  only  a  few 
times." 

"He's  an  uncommon  man,"  continued  her 
brother.  "He'd  make  a  mighty  satisfactory  hus 
band  for  an  ambitious  woman,  especially  one 
with  the  money  to  push  him  fast." 

Gladys  slowly  lifted  and  slowly  lowered  her 
smooth,  slender  shoulders. 

"That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  interest  a  woman 
in  a  man,  unless  she's  married  to  him  and  has 
got  over  thinking  more  about  him  than  about 
herself." 

"It  ought  to,"  replied  her  brother.  "A  clever 
woman  can  always  slosh  round  in  sentimental 
slop  with  her  head  above  it  and  cool.  If  I  were 
a  girl  I'd  make  a  dead  set  for  that  chap." 

"If  you  were  a  girl,"  said  Gladys,  "you'd  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  You'd  compel  him  to  make 
a  dead  set  for  you."  And  as  she  put  down  her 
glass  she  gave  his  hair  an  affectionate  pull — which 
was  her  way  of  thanking  him  for  saying  what 
she  most  wished  to  hear  on  the  subject  she  most 
wished  to  hear  about 


XIV. 

STRAINING  AT  THE  ANCHORS. 

Gladys  was  now  twenty-four  and  was  even 
more  anxious  to  marry  than  is  the  average  un 
married  person.  She  had  been  eleven  years  a 
wanderer;  she  was  tired  of  it.  She  had  no 
home ;  and  she  wanted  a  home. 

Her  aunt — her  mother's  widowed  sister — had 
taken  her  abroad  when  she  was  thirteen.  John 
was  able  to  defy  or  to  deceive  their  mother.  But 
she  could  and  did  enforce  upon  Gladys  the  rigid 
rules  which  her  fanatical  nature  had  evolved — a 
minute  and  crushing  tyranny.  Therefore  Gladys 
preferred  any  place  to  her  home.  For  ten  years 
she  had  been  roaming  western  Europe,  nominally 
watched  by  her  lazy,  selfish,  and  physically  and 
mentally  near-sighted  aunt.  Actually  her  only 
guardian  had  been  her  own  precocious,  curiously 
prudent,  curiously  reckless  self.  She  had  been 
free  to  do  as  she  pleased ;  and  she  had  pleased  to 
do  very  free  indeed.  She  had  learned  all  that 
her  intense  and  catholic  curiosity  craved  to  know, 
had  learned  it  of  masters  of  her  own  selecting— 

179 


180  THE  COST 

the  men  and  women  who  would  naturally  attract 
a  lively  young  person,  eager  to  rejoice  in  an  escape 
from  slavery.  Her  eyes  had  peered  far  into  the 
human  heart,  farthest  into  the  corrupted  human 
heart;  yet,  with  her  innocence  she  had  not  lost 
her  honesty  or  her  preference  for  the  things  she 
had  been  brought  up  to  think  clean. 

But  she  had  at  last  wearied  of  a  novelty  which 
lay  only  in  changes  of  scene  and  of  names,  with 
out  any  important  change  in  characters  or  plot. 
She  began  to  be  bored  with  the  game  of  baffling 
the  hopes  inspired  by  her  beauty  and  encouraged 
by  her  seeming  simplicity.  And  when  her 
mother  came — as  she  said  to  Pauline,  "The  only 
bearable  view  of  mother  is  a  distant  view.  I 
had  forgot  there  were  such  people  left  on  earth — 
I  had  thought  they'd  all  gone  to  their  own  kind 
of  heaven."  So  she  fled  to  America,  to  her 
brother  and  his  wife. 

Dumont  stayed  eight  days  at  the  Eyrie  on  that 
trip,  then  went  back  to  his  congenial  life  in  New 
York — to  his  business  and  his  dissipation.  He 
tempered  his  indulgence  in  both  nowadays  with 
some  exercise — his  stomach,  his  heart,  his  nerves 
and  his  doctor  had  together  given  him  a  bad 


STRAINING  AT  THE  ANCHORS  181 

rf right.  The  evening  before  he  left  he  saw  Pauline 
and  Gladys  sitting  apart  and  joined  them. 

"Why  not  invite  Scarborough  to  spend  a  week 
up  here?"  he  asked,  just  glancing  at  his  wife. 
He  never  ventured  to  look  at  her  when  there  was 
any  danger  of  their  eyes  meeting. 

Her  lips  tightened  and  the  color  swiftly  left 
her  cheeks  and  swiftly  returned. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  it,  Gladys  ?"  he  went  on. 

"Oh,  do  ask  him,  Pauline,"  said  Gladys,  with 
enthusiasm.  Like  her  brother,  she  always  went 
straight  to  the  point — she  was  in  the  habit  of 
deciding  for  herself,  of  thinking  what  she  did  was 
above  criticism,  and  of  not  especially  caring  if  it 
was  criticised.  "Please  do!" 

Pauline  waited  long — it  seemed  to  her  long 
enough  for  time  to  wrinkle  her  heart — before 
answering:  "We'll  need  another  man.  I'll  ask 
him — if  you  wish." 

Gladys  pressed  her  hand  gratefully — she  was 
fond  of  Pauline,  and  Pauline  was  liking  her  again 
as  she  had  when  they  were  children  .and  play 
mates  and  partners  in  the  woes  of  John  Dumont's 
raids  upon  their  games.  Just  then  Langdon's 
sister,  Mrs.  Barrow,  called  Gladys  to  the  other  end 


182  THE  COST 

of  the  drawing-room.  Dumont's  glance  followed 
her. 

"I  think  it'd  be  a  good  match,"  he  said  reflect 
ively. 

Pauline's  heart  missed  a  beat  and  a  suffocating 
choke  contracted  her  throat. 

"What?"  she  succeeded  in  saying. 

"Gladys  and  Scarborough,"  replied  Dumont. 
"She  ought  to  marry — she's  got  no  place  to  go. 
And  it'd  be  good  business  for  her — and  for  him, 
too,  for  that  matter,  if  she  could  land  him.  Don't 
you  think  she's  attractive  to  men  ?" 

"Very,"  said  Pauline,  lifelessly. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  -good  match?" 
he  went  on. 

"Very,"  she  said,  looking  round  wildly,  as  her 
breath  came  more  and  more  quickly. 

Langdon  strolled  up. 

"Am  I  interrupting  a  family  council  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  Dumont  replied,  rising.  "Take  my 
chair."  And  he  was  gone. 

"This  room  is  too  warm,"  said  Pauline.  "No, 
don't  open  the  window.  Excuse  me  a  moment." 
She  went  into  the  hall,  threw  a  golf  cape  round 
her  shoulders  and  stepped  out  on  the  veranda, 
closing  the  door-window  behind  her.  It  was  a 


STRAINING  AT  THE  ANCHORS  183 

moonless,  winter  night — stars  thronging  the  blue- 
black  sky;  the  steady  lamp  of  a  planet  set  in  the 
southern  horizon. 

When  she  had  been  walking  there  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  the  door-window  opened  and  Langdon 
looked  out.  "Oh — there  you  are!"  he  said. 

"Won't  you  join  me?"  Her  tone  assured  him 
that  he  would  not  be  intruding.  He  got  a  hat 
and  overcoat  and  they  walked  up  and  down  to 
gether. 

"Those  stars  irritate  me,"  he  said  after  a  while. 
"They  make  me  appreciate  that  this  world's  a 
tiny  grain  of  sand  adrift  in  infinity,  and  that  I'm 

there's  nothing  little  enough  to  express 

the  human  atom  where  the  earth's  only  a  grain. 
And  then  they  go  on  to  taunt  me  with  how  short 
lived  I  am  and  how  it'll  soon  be  all  over  for  me — 
for  ever.  A  futile  little  insect,  buzzing  about, 
waiting  to  be  crushed  under  the  heel  of  the  Great 
Executioner." 

"Sometimes  I  feel  that,"  answered  Pauline. 
"But  again — often,  as  a  child — and  since, 
when  everything  has  looked  dark  and  ugly  for 
me,  I've  gone  where  I  could  see  them.  And  they 
seemed  to  draw  all  the  fever  and  the  fear  out  of 


184  THE  COST 

me,  and  to  put  there  instead  a  sort  of — not  hap 
piness,  not  even  content,  but — courage." 

They  were  near  the  rail  now,  she  gazing  into 
the  southern  sky,  he  studying  her  face.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  not  seen  any  one  so 
beautiful.  She  was  all  in  black  with  a  diamond 
star  glittering  in  her  hair  high  above  her  fore 
head.  She  looked  like  a  splendid  plume  dropped 
from  the  starry  wing  of  night. 

"The  stars  make  you  feel  that  way,"  he  said, 
in  the  light  tone  that  disguises  a  compliment 
as  a  bit  of  raillery,  "because  you're  of  their 
family.  And  I  feel  as  I  do  because  I'm  a 
blood-relation  of  the  earthworms." 

Her  face  changed.  "Oh,  but  so  am  I!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  passion  he  had  never  seen  or 
suspected  in  her  before.  She  drew  a  long  breath, 
closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them  very  wide. 
"You  don't  know,  you  can't  imagine,  how  I  long 
to  live!  And  /  know  what  'to  live'  means." 

"Then  why  don't  you?"  he  asked— he  liked  to 
catch  people  in  their  confidential  moods  and  to 
peer  into  the  hidden  places  in  their  hearts,  not 
impudently  but  with  a  sort  of  scientific  curiosity. 

"Because  I'm  a  daughter — that's  anchor  num 
ber  one.  Because  I'm  a  mother — that's  anchor 


STRAINING  AT  THE  ANCHORS  185 

number  two.  Because  I'm  a  wife — that's  anchor 
number  three.  And  anchor  number  four — be 
cause  I'm  under  the  spell  of  inherited  instincts 
that  rule  me  though  I  don't  in  the  least  believe 
in  them.  Tied,  hands  and  feet!" 

"Inherited  instinct."  He  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"That's  the  skeleton  at  life's  banquet.  It  takes 
away  my  appetite." 

She  laughed  without  mirth,  then  sighed  with 
some  self-mockery.  "It  frightens  me  away  from 
the  table." 


XV. 

GRADUATED   PEARLS. 

But  Scarborough  declined  her  invitation.  How* 
ever,  he  did  come  to  dinner  ten  days  later;  and 
Gladys,  who  had  no  lack  of  confidence  in  her 
power  to  charm  when  and  whom  she  chose,  was 
elated  by  his  friendliness  then  and  when  she  met 
him  at  other  houses. 

"He's  not  a  bit  sentimental,"  she  told  Pauline, 
whose  silence  whenever  she  tried  to  discuss  him 
did  not  discourage  her.  "But  if  he  ever  does  care 
for  a  woman  he'll  care  in  the  same  tremendous 
way  that  he  sweeps  things  before  him  in  his 
career.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline. 

She  had  now  lingered  at  Saint  X  two  months 
beyond  the  time  she  originally  set.  She  told  her^ 
self  she  had  reached  the  limit  of  endurance,  that 
she  must  fly  from  the  spectacle  of  Gladys'  grow 
ing  intimacy  with  Scarborough;  she  told  Gladys 
it  was  impossible  for  her  longer  to  neglect  the 
new  house  in  Fifth  Avenue.  With  an  effort  she 

186 


GRADUATED  PEARLS 

added:  "You'd  rather  stay  on  here,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"I  detest  New  York,"  replied  Gladys.  "And 
I've  never  enjoyed  myself  in  my  whole  life  as 
I'm  enjoying  it  here." 

So  she  went  East  alone,  went  direct  to  Dawn 
Hill,  their  country  place  at  Manhasset,  Long 
Island,  which  Dumont  never  visited.  She  invited 
Leonora  Fanshaw  down  to  stand  between  her 
thoughts  and  herself.  Only  the  society  of  a 
human  being,  one  who  was  light-hearted  and 
amusing,  could  tide  her  back  to  any  sort  of 
peace  in  the  old  life — her  books  and  her  dogs, 
her  horseback  and  her  drawing  and  her 
gardening.  A  life  so  full  of  events,  so  empty  of 
event.  It  left  her  hardly  time  for  proper  sleep, 
yet  it  had  not  a  single  one  of  those  vivid  threads 
0f  intense  and  continuous  interest — and  one  of 
them  is  enough  to  make  bright  the  dullest  pattern 
that  issues  from  the  Loom. 

In  her  "splendor"  her  nearest  approach  to  an 
intimacy  had  been  with  Leonora. 

She  had  no  illusions  about  the  company  she 
was  keeping  in  the  East.  To  her  these  "friends" 
seemed  in  no  proper  sense  either  her  friends  or 
One  another's.  Drawn  together  from  all  parts  of 


188  THE  COST 

America,  indeed  of  the  world,  by  the  magnetism 
of  millions,  they  had  known  one  another  not  at 
all  or  only  slightly  in  the  period  of  life  when 
thorough  friendships  are  made;  even  where  they 
had  been  associates  as  children,  the  association 
had  rarely  been  of  the  kind  that  creates  friend 
ship's  democratic  intimacy.  They  had  no  com 
mon  traditions,  no  real  class-feeling,  no  common 
enthusiasms — unless  the  passion  for  keeping  rich, 
for  getting  richer,  for  enjoying  and  displaying 
riches,  could  be  called  enthusiasm.  They  were 
mere  intimate  acquaintances,  making  small  pre 
tense  of  friendship,  having  small  conception  of 
it  or  desire  for  it  beyond  that  surface  politeness 
which  enables  people  whose  selfish  interests  lie  in 
the  same  direction  to  get  on  comfortably  together. 
She  divided  them  into  two  classes.  There  were 
those  who,  like  herself,  kept  up  great  establish 
ments  and  entertained  lavishly  and  engaged  in 
the  courteous  but  fierce  rivalry  of  fashionable 
ostentation.  Then  there  were  those  who  hung 
about  the  courts  of  the  rich,  invited  because  they 
filled  in  the  large  backgrounds  and  contributed 
conversation  or  ideas  for  new  amusements,  ac-< 
cepting  because  they  loved  the  atmosphere  pi 


GRADUATED  PEARLS  189 

luxury  which  they  could  not  afford  to  create  for 
themselves. 

Leonora  was  undeniably  in  the  latter  class. 
But  she  was  associated  in  Pauline's  mind  with 
the  period  before  her  splendor.  She  had  been 
friendly  when  Dumont  was  unknown  beyond 
Saint  X.  The  others  sought  her — well,  for  the 
same  reasons  of  desire  for  distraction  and  dread 
of  boredom  which  made  her  welcome  them.  But 
Leonora,  she  more  than  half  believed,  liked  her 
to  a  certain  extent  for  herself — "likes  me  better 
than  I  like  her."  And  at  times  she  was  self- 
reproachful  for  being  thus  exceeded  in  self-giving. 
Leonora,  for  example,  told  her  her  most  intimate 
secrets,  some  of  them  far  from  creditable  to  her. 
Pauline  told  nothing  in  return.  She  sometimes 
longed  for  a  confidant,  or,  rather,  for  some  person 
who,  would  understand  without  being  told,  some 
one  like  Olivia;  but  her  imagination  refused  to 
picture  Leonora  as  that  kind  of  friend.  Even 
more  pronounced  than  her  frankness,  and  she  was 
frank  to  her  own  hurt,  was  her  biting  cynicism — 
it  was  undeniably  amusing;  it  did  not  exactly 
inspire  distrust,  but  it  put  Pauline  vaguely  on 
guard.  Also,  she  was  candidly  mercenary,  and, 
in  some  moods,  rapaciously  envious.  "But  no 


190  THE  COST 

worse,"  thought  Pauline,  "than  so  many  of  the 
others  here,  once  one  gets  below  their  surface. 
Besides,  it's  in  a  good-natured,  good-hearted 
way." 

She  wished  Fanshaw  were  as  rich  as  Leonora 
longed  for  him  to  be.  She  was  glad  Dumont 
seemed  to  be  putting  him  in  the  way  of  making 
a  fortune.  He  was  distasteful  to  her,  because 
she  saw  that  he  was  an  ill-tempered  sycophant 
under  a  pretense  of  manliness  thick  enough  to 
shield  him  from  the  unobservant  eyes  of  a  world 
of  men  and  women  greedy  of  flattery  and  busy 
each  with  himself  or  herself.  But  for  Leonora's 
sake  she  invited  him.  And  Leonora  was  appre 
ciative,  was  witty,  never  monotonous  or  common 
place,  most  helpful  in  getting  up  entertainments, 
and  good  to  look  at — always  beautifully  dressed 
and  as  fresh  as  if  just  from  a  bath;  sparkling 
green  eyes,  usually  with  good-humored  mockery 
in  them;  hard,  smooth,  glistening  shoulders  and 
arms;  lips  a  crimson  line,  at  once  cold  and 
sensuous. 

On  a  Friday  in  December  Pauline  came  up 
from  Dawn  Hill  and,  after  two  hours  at  the  new 
house,  went  to  the  jeweler's  to  buy  a  wedding 
present  for  Aurora  Galloway.  As  she  was 


GRADUATED  PEARLS  191 

ing  the  counter  where  the  superintendent  had  his 
office,  his  assistant  said:  "Beg  pardon,  Mrs. 
Dumont.  The  necklace  came  in  this  morning. 
.Would  you  like  to  look  at  it?" 

She  paused,  not  clearly  hearing  him.  He  took 
a  box  from  the  safe  behind  him  and  lifted  from 
it  a  magnificent  necklace  of  graduated  pearls  with 
a  huge  solitaire  diamond  clasp.  "It's  one  of  the 
finest  we  ever  got  together,"  he  went  on.  "But 
you  can  see  for  yourself."  He  was  flushing  in 
the  excitement  of  his  eagerness  to  ingratiate  him 
self  with  such  a  distinguished  customer. 

"Beautiful !"  said  Pauline,  taking  the  necklace 
as  he  held  it  out  to  her.  "May  I  ask  whom  it's 
for?" 

The  clerk  looked  puzzled,  then  frightened,  as 
the  implications  of  her  obvious  ignorance  dawned 
upon  him. 

"Oh— I— I "     He  almost  snatched  it  from 

her,  dropped  it  into  the  box,  put  on  the  lid.  And 
he  stood  with  mouth  ajar  and  forehead  beaded. 

"Please  give  it  to  me  again,"  said  Pauline, 
coldly.  "I  had  not  finished  looking  at  it." 

His  uneasy  eyes  spied  the  superintendent  ap 
proaching.  He  grew  scarlet,  then  white,  and  in 
an  agony  of  terror  blurted  out:  "Here  comes 


192  THE  COST 

the  superintendent.  I  beg1  you,  Mrs.  Dumont, 
don't  tell  him  I  showed  it  to  you.  I've  made 
some  sort  of  a  mistake.  You'll  ruin  me  if  you 
speak  of  it  to  any  one.  I  never  thought  it  might 
t>e  intended  as  a  surprise  to  you.  Indeed,  I 
wasn't  supposed  to  know  anything  about  it. 
Maybe  I  was  mistaken " 

His  look  and  voice  were  so  pitiful  that  Pauline 
replied  reassuringly:  "I  understand — I'll  say 
nothing.  Please  show  me  those,"  and  she  pointed 
to  a  tray  of  unset  rubies  in  the  show-case. 

And  when  the  superintendent,  bowing  obse 
quiously,  came  up  himself  to  take  charge  of  this 
important  customer,  she  was  deep  in  the  rubies 
which  the  assistant  was  showing  her  with  hands 
that  shook  and  fingers  that  blundered. 

She  did  not  permit  her  feelings  to  appear  until 
she  was  in  her  carriage  again  and  secure  from 
observation.  The  clerk's  theory  she  could  not 
entertain  for  an  instant,  contradicted  as  it  was 
by  the  facts  of  eight  years.  She  knew  she  had 
surprised  Dumont.  She  had  learned  nothing 
new;  but  it  forced  her  to  stare  straight  into  the 
face  of  that  which  she  had  been  ignoring,  that 
which  she  must  continue  to  ignore  if  she  was  to 
meet  the  ever  heavier  and  crueler  exactions  of 


GRADUATED  PEARLS  193 

the  debt  she  had  incurred  when  she  betrayed  her 
father  and  mother  and  herself.  At  a  time  when 
her  mind  was  filled  with  bitter  contrasts  between 
what  was  and  what  might  have  been,  it  brought 
bluntly  to  her  the  precise  kind  of  life  she  was 
leading,  the  precise  kind  of  surroundings  she  was 
tolerating. 

"Whom  can  he  be  giving  such  a  gift?"  she 
wondered.  And  she  had  an  impulse  to  confide 
in  Leonora  to  the  extent  of  encouraging  her  to 
hint  who  it  was.  "She  would  certainly  know. 
No  doubt  everybody  knows,  except  me." 

She  called  for  her,  as  she  had  promised,  and 
took  her  to  lunch  at  Sherry's.  But  the  impulse 
to  confide  died  as  Leonora  talked — of  money,  of 
ways  of  spending  money;  of  people  who  had 
money,  and  those  who  hadn't  money;  of  people 
who  were  spending  too  much  money,  of  those  who 
weren't  spending  enough  money;  of  what  she 
would  do  if  she  had  money,  of  what  many  did  to 
get  money.  Money,  money,  money — it  was  all 
of  the  web  and  most  of  the  woof  of  her  talk. 
Now  it  ran  boldly  on  the  surface  of  the  pattern ; 
now  it  was  half  hid  under  something  about  art 
or  books  or  plays  or  schemes  for  patronizing  the 


194:  THE  COST 

poor  and  undermining  their  self-respect — but  ifl 
was  always  there. 

For  the  first  time  Leonora  jarred  upon  her 
fiercely — unendurably.  She  listened  until  the 
sound  grew  indistinct,  became  mingled  with  the 
chatter  of  that  money-flaunting  throng.  And 
presently  the  chatter  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  mad 
dening  repetition  of  one  word,  money — the  central 
idea  in  all  the  thought  and  all  the  action  of  these 
people.  "I  must  get  away/'  she  thought,  "or  I 
shall  cry  out."  And  she  left  abruptly,  alleging 
that  she  must  hurry  to  catch  her  train. 

Money-mad  1  her  thoughts  ran  on.  The  only 
test  of  honor — 'money,  and  ability  and  willingness 
to  spend  it.  They  must  have  money  or  they're 
nobodies.  And  if  they  have  money,  who  cares 
where  it  came  from?  No  one  asks  where  the 
men  get  it — why  should  any  one  ask  where,  the 
women  get  it  2 


XVI. 

CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS. 

A  few  days  afterward — it  was  a  Wednesday— ^ 
Pauline  came  up  to  town  early  in  the  afternoon, 
as  she  had  an  appointment  with  the  dressmaker 
and  was  going  to  the  opera  in  the  evening.  At 
the  dressmaker's,  while  she  waited  for  a  fitter  to 
return  from  the  workroom,  she  glanced  at  a  news 
paper  spread  upon  the  table  so  that  its  entire  front 
page  was  in  view.  It  was  filled  with  an  account 
of  how  the  Woolens  Monopoly  had,  in  that  bitter 
winter,  advanced  prices  twenty  to  thirty-five  per 
cent,  all  along  the  line.  From  the  center  of  the 
page  stared  a  picture  of  John  Dumont — its  ex 
pression  peculiarly  arrogant  and  sinister. 

She  read  the  head-lines  only,  then  turned  from 
the  table.  But  on  the  drive  up-town  she  stopped 
the  carriage  at  the  Savoy  and  sent  the  footman 
to  the  news-stand  to  get  the  paper.  She  read  the 
article  through — parts  of  it  several  times. 

She  had  Langdon  and  Honoria  Longview  at 
'dinner  that  night;  by  indirect  questioning  she 
drew  him  on  to  confirm  the  article,  to  describe 

195 


196  THE  COST 

how  the  Woolens  Monopoly  was  "giving  the 
country  an  old-fashioned  winter."  On  the  way; 
to  the  opera  she  was  ashamed  of  her  ermine  wrap 
enfolding  her  from  the  slightest  sense  of  the  icy 
air.  She  did  not  hear  the  singers,  was  hardly 
conscious  of  her  surroundings.  As  they  left  the 
Metropolitan  she  threw  back  her  wrap  and  sat 
with  her  neck  bared  to  the  intense  cold. 

"I  say,  don't  do  that!"  protested  Langdon. 

She  reluctantly  drew  the  fur  about  her.  But 
when  she  had  dropped  him  and  then  Honoria  and 
was  driving  on  up  the  avenue  alone,  she  bared 
her  shoulders  and  arms  again — "like  a  silly  child," 
she  said.  But  it  gave  her  a  certain  satisfaction,  for 
she  felt  like  one  who  has  a  secret  store  of  food  in 
time  of  famine  and  feasts  upon  it.  And  she  sat 
unprotected. 

"Is  Mr.  Dumont  in?"  she  asked  the  butler  as 
he  closed  the  door  of  their  palace  behind  her. 

"I  think  he  is,  ma'am." 

"Please  tell  him  I'd  like  to  see  him — in  the 
library." 

She  had  to  wait  only  three  or  four  minutes 
before  he  came — in  smoking  jacket  and  slippers. 
It  was  long  since  she  had  looked  at  him  so  care 
fully  as  she  did  then;  and  she  noted  how  mucli 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  197 

grosser  he  was,  the  puffs  under  his  eyes,  the  lines 
of  cruelty  that  were  coming  out  strongly  with 
autocratic  power  and  the  custom  of  receiving* 
meek  obedience.  And  her  heart  sank.  "Use 
less,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Utterly  useless!" 
And  the  incident  of  the  necklace  and  its  reminders 
of  all  she  had  suffered  from  him  and  through  him 
came  trooping  into  her  mind;  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  not  speak,  could  not  even  re 
main  in  the  room  with  him. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  before  the  open  fire. 
"Horribly  cold,  isn't  it?" 

She  moved  uneasily.  He  slowly  lighted  a  cigar 
and  began  to  smoke  it,  his  attitude  one  of  waiting. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  she  began  at  last — she  was 
looking  reflectively  into  the  fire — "about  your 
great  talent  for  business  and  finance.  You 
formed  your  big  combination,  and  because  you 
understand  everything  about  wool  you  employ 
more  men,  you  pay  higher  wages,  and  you  make 
the  goods  better  than  ever,  and  at  less  cost." 

"Between  a  third  and  a  half  cheaper,"  he  said. 
"We  employ  thirty  thousand  more  men,  and  since 
we  settled  the  last  strike" — a  grim  smile  that 
would  have  meant  a  great  deal  to  her  had  she 
known  the  history  of  that  strike  and  how  hard 


198  THE  COST, 

he  had  fought  before  he  gave  in — "we've  paid 
thirty  per  cent,  higher  wages.  Yet  the  profits  are 
— well,  you  can  imagine." 

"And  you've  made  millions  for  yourself  and 
for  those  in  with  you." 

"I  haven't  developed  my  ideas  for  nothing." 

She  paused  again.  It  was  several  minutes  be 
fore  she  went  on : 

"When  a  doctor  or  a  man  of  science  or  a  phil 
osopher;  makes  a  discovery  that'll  be  a  benefit  to 
the  world" — she  looked  at  him  suddenly,  earnest, 
appealing — "he  gives  it  freely.  And  he  gets 
honor  and  fame.  Why  shouldn't  you  do  that, 
John?"  She  had  forgotten  herself  in  her  subject. 

He  smiled  into  the  fire — hardly  a  day  passed 
that  he  did  not  have  presented  to  him  some  scheme 
for  relieving  him  of  the  burden  of  his  riches; 
here  was  another,  and  from  such  an  unexpected 
quarter ! 

"You  could  be  rich,  too.  We  spend  twenty, 
fifty  times  as  much  as  we  can  possibly  enjoy; 
and  you  have  more  than  we  could  possibly  spend. 
iWhy  shouldn't  a  man  with  financial  genius  be 
like  men  with  other  kinds  of  genius?  Why 
should  he  be  the  only  one;  to  stay  down  on  the 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  199 

level  with  dull,  money-grubbing,  sordid  kinds  of 
people?  Why  shouldn't  he  have  ideals?" 

He  made  no  reply.  Indeed,  so  earnest  was  she 
that  she  did  not  givfl  him  time,  but  immediately 
went  on: 

"Just  think,  John!  Instead  of  giving  out  in 
these  charities  and  philanthropies — I  never  did 
believe  in  them — they're  bound  to  be  more  or  less 
degrading  to  the  people  that  take,  and  when  it's 
so  hard  to  help  a  friend  with  money  without 
harming  him,  how  much  harder  it  must  be  to 
help  strangers.  Instead  of  those  things,  why  not 
be  really  great  ?  Just  think,  John,  how  the  world 
would  honor  you  and  how  you  would  feel,  if  you 
used  your  genius  to  make  the  necessaries  cheap 
for  all  these  fellow-beings  of  ours  who  have  such 
a  hard  time  getting  on.  That  would  be  real 
superiority — and  our  life  now  is  so  vain,  so 
empty.  It's  brutal,  John." 

"What  do  you  propose?"  he  asked,  curious  as 
always  when  a  new  idea  was  presented  to  him. 
And  this  was  certainly  new — apparently,  philan 
thropy  without  expense. 

"You  are  master.  You  can  do  as  you  please. 
Why  not  put  your  great  combine  on  such  a  basis 
that  it  would  bring  an  honest,  just  return  to  you 


200  THE  COST 

and  the  others,  and  would  pay  the  highest  pos 
sible  wages,  and  would  give  the  people  the  benefit 
of  what  your  genius  for  manufacturing  and  for 
finance  has  made  possible?  I  think  we  who  are 
so  comfortable  and  never  have  to  think  of  the 
necessaries  of  life  forget  how  much  a  few  cents 
here  and  there  mean  to  most  people.  And  the 
things  you  control  mean  all  the  difference  be 
tween  warmth  and  cold,  between  life  and  death, 
John!" 

As  she  talked  he  settled  back  into  his  chair, 
and  his  face  hardened  into  its  unyielding  expres 
sion.  A  preposterous  project!  Just  like  a  good, 
sentimental  woman.  Not  philanthropy  without 
expense,  but  philanthropy  at  the  expense  both  of 
his  fortune  and  of  his  position  as  a  master.  To 
use  his  brain  and  his  life  for  those  ungrateful 
people  who  derided  his  benefactions  as  either 
contributions  to  "the  conscience  fund"  or  as  in 
direct  attempts  at  public  bribery !  He  could  not 
conceal  his  impatience — though  he  did  not  venture 
to  put  it  into  words. 

"If  we — if  you  and  I,  John,"  she  hurried  on, 
leaning  toward  him  in  her  earnestness,  "had  some 
thing  like  that  to  live  for,  it  might  come  to  ba 
very  different  with  us — and — I'm  thinking  of 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  201 

Gardiner  most  of  all.  This'll  ruin  him  some  day. 
No  one,  no  one,  can  lead  this  kind  of  life  without 
being  dragged  down,  without  becoming  selfish 
and  sordid  and  cruel." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said  curtly,  with 
out  looking  at  her.  "I  never  heard  of  such — 
such  sentimentalism." 

She  winced  and  was  silent,  sat  watching  his 
bold,  strong  profile.  Presently  she  said  in  a 
changed,  strange,  strained  voice :  "What  I  asked 
to  see  you  for  was — John,  won't  you  put  the 
prices — at  least  where  they  were  at  the  beginning 
of  this  dreadful  winter?" 

"Oh— I  see!"  he  exclaimed.  "You've  been 
listening  to  the  lies  about  me." 

"Reading''  she  said,  her  eyes  flashing  at  the 
insult  in  the  accusation  that  she  had  let  people 
attack  him  to  her. 

"Well,  reading  then,"  he  went  on,  wondering 
what  he  had  said  that  angered  her.  And  he  made 
an  elaborate  explanation — about  "the  necessity  of 
meeting  fixed  charges"  which  he  himself  had 
fixed,  about  "fair  share  of  prosperity,"  "every 
thing  more  expensive,"  "the  country  better  able 
to  pay,"  "every  one  doing  as  we  are,"  and  so  on. 

She  listened  closely ;  she  had  not  come  ignorant 


THE  COST 

Of  the  subject,  and  she  penetrated  his  sophistries. 
When  he  saw  her  expression,  saw  he  had  failed 
to  convince  her,  into  his  eyes  came  the  look  she 
understood  well — the  look  that  told  her  she  would 
only  infuriate  him  and  bruise  herself  by  flinging 
herself  against  the  iron  of  his  resolve. 

"You  must  let  me  attend  to  my  own  business," 
he  ended,  his  tone  good-natured,  his  eyes  hard. 

She  sat  staring  into  the  fire  for  several  minutes 
— from  her  eyes  looked  a  will  as  strong  as  his. 
Then  she  rose  and,  her  voice  lower  than  before 
but  vibrating,  said :  "All  round  us — here  in  New 
.York — all  over  this  country — away  off  in  Europe 
— I  can  see  them — I  can  feel  them — suffering! 
As  you  yourself  said,  it's  horribly  cold!"  She 
drew  herself  up  and  faced  him,  a  light  in  her  eyes 
before  which  he  visibly  shrank.  "Yes,  it's  your 
business.  But  it  shan't  be  mine  or  my  boy's !" 

And  she  left  the  room.  In  the  morning  she 
returned  to  Dawn  Hill  and  arranged  her  affairs 
so  that  she  would  be  free  to  go.  Not  since  the 
spring  day,  nearly  nine  years  before,  when  she 
began  that  Vergil  lesson  which  ended  in  a  lesson 
in  the  pitilessness  of  consequences  that  was  not 
yet  finished,  had  her  heart  been  so  light,  so  hope 
ful.  In  vain  she  reminded  herself  that  the  doing 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  203 

of  this  larger  duty,  so  imperative,  nevertheless 
endangered  her  father  and  mother.  "They  will 
be  proud  that  I'm  doing  it,"  she  assured  herself. 
'Tor  Gardiner's  sake,  as  well  as  for  mine,  they'll 
be  glad  I  separated  kirn  and  myself  from  this 
debased  life.  They  will — they  must,  since  it  is 
right!"  And  already  she  felt  the  easing  of  the 
bonds  that  had  never  failed  to  cut  deeper  into  the 
living  flesh  whenever  she  had  ventured  to  hope 
that  she  was  at  last  growing  used  to  them. 

"Free!"  she  said  to  herself  exultantly.  She 
dared  to  exult,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  express  to 
herself  the  hopes,  the  wild,  incredible  hopes,  which 
the  very  thought  of  freedom  set  to  quivering  deep 
down  in  her,  as  the  first  warmth  makes  the  life 
toss  in  its  slumber  in  the  planted  seed. 

On  Friday  she  came  up  to  New  York  late  in 
the  afternoon,  and  in  the  evening  went  to  the 
opera — for  a  last  look  round.  As  the  lights  were 
lowering  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain  on  the  second 
act,  Leonora  and  her  husband  entered  the  box* 
She  had  forgotten  inviting  them.  She  gave  Leo* 
nora  the  chair  in  front  and  took  the  one  behind — 
Millicent  Rowland,  whom  she  herself  brought, 
had  the  other  front  seat.  As  her  chair  was  mid- 
;way  between  the  two,  she  was  seeing  across 


204  THE  COST 

Leonora's  shoulders.  Presently  Burnout  came  in 
and  took  the  chair  behind  Leonora's  and  leaned 
'forward,  his  chin  almost  touching*  the  slope  of 
'her  neck  as  he  talked  to  her  in  an  undertone,  she 
greatly  amused  or  pretending  to  be. 

The  light  from  the  stage  fell  across  Leonora's 
bosom,  fell  upon  a  magnificent  string  of  gradu 
ated  pearls  clasped  with  a  huge  solitaire — beyond 
question  the  string  the  jeweler's  clerk  had  blun 
deringly  shown  her.  And  there  was  Dumont's 
heavy,  coarse  profile  outlined  against  Leonora's 
cheek  and  throat,  her  cynical,  sensuous  profile 
showing  just  beyond. 

Open  sprang  a  hundred  doors  of  memory ;  into 
Pauline's  mind  was  discharged  avalanche  after 
avalanche  of  dreadful  thoughts.  "No!  No!"  she 
protested.  "How  infamous  to  think  such  things 
Of  my  best  friend!"  But  she  tried  in  vain  to- 
thrust  suspicions,  accusations,  proofs,  back  into 
the  closets.  Instead,  she  sank  under  the  flood  of 
them — sick  and  certain. 

When  the  lights  went  up  she  said :  "I'm  feel 
ing  badly  all  at  once.  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  take 
you  home,  Milly." 

"Are  you  ill,  dear?"  asked  Leonora. 

"Oh,  no — just  faint,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  205 

which  she  succeeded  in  making  fairly  natural. 
"Please  don't  move.  Stay  on — you  really  must." 
The  other  man — Shenstone — helped  her  and 
Millicent  with  their  wraps  and  accompanied  them 
to  their  carriage.  When  she  had  set  Millicent 
down  she  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  For  the 
first  time  in  seven  years  her  course  lay  straight 
before  her.  "I  must  be  free!"  she  said.  "I  must 
be  entirely  free — free  before  the  whole  world — 
I  and  my  boy." 

The  next  morning,  in  the  midst  of  her  prepara 
tions  to  take  the  ten-o'clock  limited  for  the  West, 
her  maid  brought  a  note  to  her — a  copy  of  a 
National  Woolens  Company  circular  to  the  trade, 
setting  forth  that  "owing  to  a  gratifying  easing 
in  the  prices  for  raw  wool,  the  Company  are  able 
to  announce  and  take  great  pleasure  in  announc 
ing  a  ten  per  cent,  reduction."  On  the  margin 
Dumont  had  scrawled  "To  go  out  to-morrow  and 
to  be  followed  in  ten  days  by  fifteen  per  cent.  more. 
Couldn't  resist  your  appeal."  Thus  by  the  sheer 
luck  that  had  so  often  supplemented  his  skill  and 
mitigated  his  mistakes,  he  had  yielded  to  her  plea 
just  in  time  to  confuse  the  issue  between  her  and 
him. 


£06  THE  COST 

She  read  the  circular  and  the  scrawl  witK  a 
sinking  heart.  "Nevertheless,  I  shall  go!"  she 
tried  to  protest.  "True,  he  won't  send  out  this 
circular  if  I  do.  But  what  does  it  matter,  one 
infamy  more  or  less  in  him?  Besides,  he  will 
accomplish  his  purpose  in  some  other  way  of 
which  I  shall  not  know."  But  this  was  only  the 
beginning  of  the  battle.  Punishment  on  punish 
ment  for  an  act  which  seemed  right  at  the  time 
had  made  her  morbid,  distrustful  of  herself.  And 
she  could  not  conquer  the  dread  lest  her  longing 
to  be  free  was  blinding  her,  was  luring  her  on  to 
fresh  calamities,  involving  all  whom  she  cared 
for,  all  who  cared  for  her.  Whichever  way  she 
looked  she  could  see  only  a  choice  between  wrongs. 
To  stay  under  the  same  roof  with  him  or  at 
Dawn  Hill — self-respect  put  that  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  To  free  herself — how  could  she,  when  it 
meant  sacrificing  her  parents  and  also  the  thou 
sands  shivering  under  the  extortions  of  his 
monopoly  ? 

In  the  end  she  chose  the  course  that  seemed  to 
combine  the  least  evil  with  the  most  good.  She 
would  go  to  the  Eyrie,  and  the  world  and  her 
father  and  mother  would  think  she  was  absenting 
herself  from  her  husband  to  attend  to  the  bring- 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  207 

ing  up  of  her  boy.     She  would  see  even  less  of 
Scarborough  than  she  saw  when  she  was  last  at 
Saint  X. 
That  afternoon  she  wrote  to  Burnout : 

Since  we  had  our  talk  I  have  found  out 
about  Leonora.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
stay  here.  I  shall  go  West  to-morrow.  But 
I  shall  not  go  to  my  father's;  because  of 
your  circular  I  shall  go  to  the  Eyrie,  instead 
— at  least  for  the  present. 

PAULINE  DUIMONT. 

Two  weeks  after  she  was  again  settled  at  the 
Eyrie,  Langdon  appeared  in  Saint  X,  alleging 
business  at  the  National  Woolens'  factories  there. 
He  accepted  her  invitation  to  stay  with  her,  and 
devoted  himself  to  Gladys,  who  took  up  her 
flirtation  with  him  precisely  where  she  had 
dropped  it  when  they  bade  each  the  other  a  mock- 
mournful  good-by  five  months  before.  They  were 
so  realistic  that  Pauline  came  to  the  satisfying  con^ 
elusion  that  her  sister-in-law  was  either  in  earnest 
with  Langdon  or  not  in  earnest  with  anybody. 
If  she  had  not  been  avoiding  Scarborough,  she 
would  probably  have  seen  Gladys'  real  game — « 
to  use  Langdon  as  a  stalking  horse  for  him. 


208  THE  COST 

"No  doubt  Scarborough,  like  all  men,  imagines 
he's  above  jealousy,"  Gladys  had  said  to  herself, 
casting  her  keen  eyes  over  the  situation.  "But 
there  never  was  a  man  who  didn't  race  better 
with  a  pace-maker  than  on  an  empty  track." 

Toward  the  end  of  Langdon's  first  week  Pau 
line's  suspicions  as  to  one  of  the  objects  of  his 
winter  trip  West  were  confirmed  by  his  saying 
quite  casually:  "Dumont's  dropped  Fanshaw, 
and  Leonora's  talking  of  the  stage.  In  fact,  she's 
gone  abroad  to  study." 

When  he  was  leaving,  after  nearly  three  weeks, 
he  asked  her  when  she  was  coming  back  East. 

"Never — I  hope,"  she  said,  her  fingers  playing 
with  the  close-cropped  curls  of  her  boy  standing 
beside  her. 

"I  fancied  so — I  fancied  so,"  replied  Langdon, 
his  eyes  showing  that  he  understood  her  and  that 
he  knew  she  understood  for  whom  he  had  asked. 
"You  are  going  to  stay  on — at  the  Eyrie?" 

"I  think  so,  unless  something — disquieting — 
occurs.  I've  not  made  up  my  mind.  Fate  plays 
such  queer  tricks  that  I've  stopped  guessing  at 
to-morrow." 

"What  was  it  Miss  Dumont's  friend,  Scar 
borough,  quoted  from  Spinoza  at  Atwater's  the 


CHOICE  AMONG  EVILS  209 

other  night?  'If  a  stone,  on  its  way  from  the 
sling  through  the  air,  could  speak,  it  would  say, 
"How  free  I  am!"  '  Is  that  the  way  you  feel?" 

There  came  into  Pauline's  eyes  a  look  of  pain 
so  intense  that  he  glanced  away. 

"We  choose  a  path  blindfold,"  she  said,  her 
tone  as  light  as  her  look  was  dark,  "and  we  must 
go  where  it  goes — there's  no  other  ever  after 
ward." 

"But  if  it  leads  down?" 

"All  the  paths  lead  up,"  she  replied  with  a  sad 
smile.  "It's  the  precipices  that  lead  down." 

Gladys  joined  them  and  Langdon  said  to  her : 

"Well,  good-by,  Miss  Dumont — don't  get  mar 
ried  till  you  see  me."  He  patted  the  boy  on 
the  shoulder.  "Good-by,  Gardiner — remember, 
we  men  must  always  be  brave,  and  gentle  with 
the  ladies.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Dumont — keep  away 
from  the  precipices.  And  if  you  should  want  to 
come  back  to  us  you'll  have  no  trouble  in  finding 
us.  We're  a  lot  of  slow  old  rotters,  and  we'll 
be  just  where  you  left  us — yawning,  and  shying 
at  new  people  and  at  all  new  ideas  except  about 
clothes,  and  gossiping  about  each  other."  And 
he  was  in  the  auto  and  off  for  the  station. 


XVII 

TWO   AND  THE   BARRIER. 

Scarborough  often  rode  with  Gladys  and 
Pauline,  sometimes  with  Gladys  alone.  One 
afternoon  in  August  he  came  expecting  to  go 
out  with  both.  But  Gladys  was  not  well  that 
day.  She  had  examined  her  pale  face  and  deeply 
circled  eyes  in  her  glass;  she  had  counseled  with 
her  maid — a  discreetly  and  soothingly  frank 
French  woman.  Too  late  to  telephone  him,  she 
had  overruled  her  longing  to  see  him  and  had 
decided  that  at  what  she  hoped  was  his  "critical 
stage"  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  show  herself  to 
him  thus — even  in  her  most  becoming  tea-gown, 
which  compelled  the  eyes  of  the  beholder  to  a 
fascinating  game  of  hide  and  seek  with  her  neck 
and  arms  and  the  lines  of  her  figure. 

"And  Mrs.  Dumont?"  inquired  Scarborough 
of  the  servant  who  brought  Gladys'  message 
and  note. 

"She's  out  walking,  sir." 

Scarborough  rode  away,  taking  the  long  drive 

through  the  grounds  of  the  Eyrie,  as  it  would 
210 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  211 

save  him  a  mile  of  dusty  and  not  well-shaded 
highway.  A  few  hundred  yards  and  he  was  pass 
ing  the  sloping  meadows  that  lay  golden  bronze 
in  the  sun,  beyond  the  narrow  fringe  of  wood 
skirting  and  shielding  the  drive.  The  grass  and 
clover  had  been  cut.  Part  of  it  was  spread  where 
it  had  fallen,  part  had  been  raked  into  little  hil 
locks  ready  for  the  wagons.  At  the  edge  of  one 
of  these  hillocks  far  down  the  slope  he  saw  the 
tail  of  a  pale  blue  skirt,  a  white  parasol  cast  upon 
the  stubble  beside  it.  He  reined  in  his  horse, 
hesitated,  dismounted,  tied  his  bridle  round  a 
sapling.  He  strode  across  the  field  toward  the 
hillock  that  had  betrayed  its  secret  to  him. 

"Do  I  interrupt?"  he  called  when  he  was  still 
far  enough  away  not  to  be  taking  her  by  surprise. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  paused,  debating 
whether  to  call  again  or  to  turn  back. 

But  soon  she  was  rising — the  lower  part  of  her 
tall  narrow  figure  hid  by  the  hillock,  the  upper 
part  revealing  to  him  the  strong  stamp  of  that 
vivid  individuality  of  hers  which  separated  her 
at  once  from  no  matter  what  company.  She  had 
on  a  big  garden  hat,  trimmed  just  a  little  with 
summer  flowers,  a  blouse  of  some  soft  white  ma 
terial,  with  even  softer  lace  on  the  shoulders  and 


THE  COST 

in  the  long,  loose  sleeves.  She  gave  a  friendly 
nod  and  glance  in  his  direction,  and  said:  "Oh, 
no — not  at  all.  I'm  glad  to  have  help  in  enjoying 
this." 

She  was  looking  out  toward  the  mists  of  the 
horizon  hills.  The  heat  of  the  day  had  passed; 
the  woods,  the  hillocks  of  hay  were  casting  long 
shadows,  on  the  pale-bronze  fields.  A  breeze  had 
sprung  up  and  was  lifting  from  the  dried  and 
drying  grass  and  clover  a  keen,  sweet,  intoxicat 
ing  perfume — like  the  odor  which  classic  zephyrs 
used  to  shake  from  the  flowing  hair  of  woodland 
nymphs. 

He  stood  beside  her  without  speaking,  looking 
intently  at  her.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
alone  with  her  since  the  afternoon  at  Battle  Field 
when  she  confessed  her  marriage  and  he  his  love. 

"Bandit  was  lame,"  she  said  when  it  seemed 
necessary  to  say  something. 

She  rode  a  thoroughbred,  Bandit,  who  would 
let  no  one  else  mount  him;  whenever  she  got  a 
new  saddle  she  herself  had  to  help  put  it  on,  so 
alert  was  he  for  schemes  to  entrap  him  to  some 
other's  service.  He  obeyed  her  in  the  haughty, 
nervous  way  characteristic  of  thoroughbreds-— 
0beyed  because  he  felt  that  she  was  without  feart: 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  213 

and  because  she  had  the  firm  but  gentle  hand  that 
does  not  fret  a  horse  yet  does  not  let  him  think 
for  an  instant  that  he  is  or  can  be  free.  Then, 
too,  he  had  his  share  of  the  universal,  fundamental 
vanity  we  should  probably  find  swelling  the  oyster 
did  we  but  know  how  to  interpret  it;  and  he 
must  have  appreciated  what  an  altogether  har 
monious  spectacle  it  was  when  he  swept  along 
with  his  mistress  upon  his  back  as  light  and  free 
as  a  Valkyr. 

"I  was  sorry  to  miss  the  ride/'  Pauline  went 
on  after  another  pause — to*  her,  riding  was  the 
keenest  of  the  many  physical  delights  that  are  for 
those  who  have  vigorous  and  courageous  bodies 
and  sensitive  nerves.  Whenever  it  was  possible 
she  fought  out  her  battles  with  herself  on  horse 
back,  usually  finding  herself  able  there  to  drown 
mental  distress  in  the  surge  of  physical  exultation. 

As  he  still  did  not  speak  she  looked  at  him — 
and  could  not  look  away.  She  had  not  seen  that 
expression  since  their  final  hour  together  at  Battle 
Field,  though  in  these  few  last  months  she  had 
been  remembering  it  so  exactly,  had  been  wonder 
ing,  doubting  whether  she  could  not  bring  it  to 
his  face  again,  had  been  forbidding  herself  to 
long  to  see  it.  And  there  it  was,  unchanged  like 


214  THE  COST 

all  the  inflexible  purposes  that  made  his  character 
and  his  career.  And  back  to  her  came,  as  it  had 
come  many  and  many  a  time  in  those  years,  the 
story,  he  had  told  her  of  his  father  and  mother, 
of  his  father's  love  for  his  mother — how  it  had 
enfolded  her  from  the  harshness  and  peril  of 
pioneer  life,  had  enfolded  her  in  age  no  less  than 
in  youth,  had  gone  down  into  and  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  with  her,  had  not  left  her 
even  at  the  gates  of  Death,  but  had  taken  him 
on  with  her  into  the  Beyond.  And  Pauline  trem 
bled,  an  enormous  joy  thrilling  through  and 
through  her. 

"Don't!"  she  said  uncertainly.  "Don't  look 
at  me  like  that,  please!" 

"You  were  crying,"  he  said  abruptly.  He 
stood  before  her,  obviously  one  who  had  con 
quered  the  respect  of  the  world  in  fair,  open 
battle,  and  has  the  courage  that  is  for  those  only 
who  have  tested  their  strength  and  know  it  will 
not  fail  them.  And  the  sight  of  him,  the  look 
of  him,  filled  her  not  with  the  mere  belief,  but 
with  the  absolute  conviction  that  no'  malign  power 
in  all  the  world  or  in  the  mystery  round  the  world 
could  come  past  him  to  her  to  harass  or  harm  her. 
The  doubts,  the  sense  of  desolation  that  had  so 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  215 

agitated  her  a  few  minutes  before  now  seemed 
trivial,  weak,  unworthy. 

She  lowered  her  eyes — she  had  thought  he 
would  not  observe  the  slight  traces  of  the  tears 
she  had  carefully  wiped  away.  She  clasped  her 
hands  meekly  and  looked — and  felt — like  a  guilty 
child.  The  coldness,  the  haughtiness  were  gone 
from  her  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shyly.  "Yes— I— I—"  She 
lifted  her  eyes — her  tears  had  made  them  as  soft 
and  luminous  as  the  eyes  of  a  child  just  awake 
from  a  long,  untroubled  sleep.  "But — you  must 
not  ask  me.  It's  nothing  that  can  be  helped.  Be- 
sides,  it  seems  nothing — now."  She  forced  a 
faint  smile.  "If  you  knew  what  a  comfort  it  is 
to  cry  you'd  try  it." 

"I  have,"  he  replied.  Then  after  a  pause  he 
added :  "Once."  Something  in  his  tone — she  did 
not  venture  to  look  at  him  again — made  her  catch 
her  breath.  She  instantly  and  instinctively  knew 
.when  that  "once"  was.  "I  don't  care  to  try  it 
again,  thank  you,"  he  went  on.  "But  it  made 
me  able  to  understand  what  sort  of  comfort  you 
were  getting.  For — you  don't  cry  easily." 

The  katydids  were  clamoring  drowsily  in  the 
tops  of  the  sycamores.  From  out  of  sight  beyond 


216  THE  COST 

the  orchard  came  the  monotonous,  musical  whir 
Of  a  reaper.  A  quail  whistled  his  pert,  hopeful, 
careless  "Bob  White!"  from  the  rail  fence  edging 
the  wheat  field.  A  bumblebee  grumbled  among  a 
cluster  of  swaying  clover  blossoms  which  the 
mower  had  spared.  And  the  breeze  tossed  up 
and  rolled  over  the  meadow,  over  the  senses  of 
the  young  man  and  the  young  woman,  great  bil 
lows  of  that  perfume  which  is  the  combined 
essence  of  all  nature's  love  philters. 

Pauline  sank  on  the  hay,  and  Scarborough 
stretched  himself  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  "For 
a  long  time  it's  been  getting  darker  and  darker 
for  me,"  she  began,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is 
talking  of  some  past  sorrow  which  casts  a  re 
treating  shadow  over  present  joy  to  make  it  the 
brighter  by  contrast.  "To-day — this  afternoon 
it  seemed  as  if  the  light  were  just  about  to  go 
put — for  good  and  all.  And  I  came  here.  I 
iound  myself  lying  on  the  ground — on  the  bosom 
of  this  old  cruel-kind  mother  of  ours.  And — " 
She  did  not  finish — he  would  know  the  rest. 
Besides,  what  did  it  matter— now? 

He  said:  "If  only  there  were  some  way  in 
[which  I  could  help." 

"It  isn't  the  people  who  appear  at  the  crises  .of 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  217 

One's  life,  like  the  hero  on  the  stage,  that  really 
help.  I'm  afraid  the  crises,  the  real  crises  of  real 
life,  must  always  be  met  alone." 

"Alone,"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  The  sky 
was  blue  now — cloudless  blue;  but  in  that  word 
alone  he  could  hear  the  rumble  of  storms  below 
the  horizon,  storms  past,  storms  to  come. 

''The  real  helpers,"  she  went  on,  "are  those 
who  strengthen  us  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour. 
And  when  no  physical  presence  would  do  any 
good,  when  no  outside  aid  is  possible — ^they— 
it's  like  finding  a  wall  at  one's  back  when  one's 
in  dread  of  being  surrounded.  I  suppose  you 
don't  realize  how  much  it  means  to — to  how  many 
people — to  watch  a  man  who  goes  straight  and 
strong  on  his  way — withoQt  blustering,  without 
trampling  anybody,  without  taking  any  mean 
advantage.  You  don't  muid  flay  saying  these 
things?" 

She  felt  the  look  which  she  did  not  venture  to 
face  as  he  answered:  "I  needed  to  hear  their 
to-day.  For  it  seemed  to  me  that  I,  too,  had  got 
to  the  limit  of  my  strength." 

"But  you  hadn't."     She  said  this  confidently. 

"No — I  suppose  not.  I've  thought  so  before; 
but  somehow  I've  always  managed  to  gather  my* 


«18  THE  COST 

self  together.  This  time  it  was  the  work  of 
years  apparently  undone — hopelessly  undone. 
They"— she  understood  that  "they"  meant  the 
leaders  of  the  two  corrupt  rings  whose  rule  of 
the  state  his  power  with  the  people  menaced — • 
"they  have  bought  away  some  of  my  best  men — 
bought  them  with  those  'favors'  that  are  so  much 
more  disreputable  than  money  because  they're 
respectable.  Then  they  came  to  me" — he 
laughed  unpleasantly — "and  took  me  up  into  a 
high  mountain  and  showed  me  all  the  kingdoms 
of  the  earth,  as  it  were.  I  could  be  governor, 
senator,  they  said,  could  probably  have  the  nomi 
nation  for  president  even, — not  if  I  would  fall 
down  and  worship  them,  but  if  I  would  let  them 
alone.  I  could  accomplish  nearly  all  that  I've 
worked  so  long  to  accomplish  if  I  would  only 
concede  a  few  things  to  them.  I  could  be  almost 
free.  Almost — that  is,  not  free  at  all." 

She  said :  "And  they  knew  you  no  better  than 
that!" 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "it  looks  as  if  I'll  have 
to  build  all  over  again." 

"I  think  not,"  she  replied.  "If  they  weren't 
still  afraid  of  you  they'd  never  have  come  to  you. 
But  what  does  it  matter?  You  don't  fight  for 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  219 

victory,  you  fight  for  the  fight's  sake.  And  so"— - 
she  looked  at  him  proudly — "you  can't  lose." 

"Thank  you.  Thank  you,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

She  sighed.  "How  I  envy  you !  You  live.  I 
can  simply  be  alive.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  sitting  in  a  railway  station  waiting  to  begin 
my  journey — waiting  for  a  train  that's  late — 
nobody  knows  how  late.  Simply  alive — that's 
all." 

"That's  a  great  deal,"  he  said.  He  was  look 
ing  round  at  the  sky,  at  the  horizon,  at  the  fields 
far  and  near,  at  her.  "A  great  deal,"  he  repeated. 

"You  feel  that,  too?"  She  smiled.  "I  sup 
pose  I  should  live  on  through  anything  and  every 
thing,  because,  away  down  under  the  surface, 
where  even  the  worst  storms  can't  reach,  there's 
always  a  sort  of  tremendous  joy — the  sense  of 
being  alive — just  alive."  She  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Often  when  I've  been — anything  but  happy — a 
little  while  ago,  for  instance — I  suddenly  have  a 
feeling  of  ecstasy.  I  say  to  myself:  Yes,  I'm 
unhappy,  but — I'm  alive!" 

He  made  a  sudden  impulsive  movement  toward 
her,  then  restrained  himself,  pressed  his  lips  to 
gether  and  fell  back  on  his  elbow. 


220  THE  COST 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself," 
she  added. 

"You  mustn't  say  that."  He  was  sitting  up, 
was  speaking  with  all  his  energy.  "All  that  yotl 
were  telling  me  a  while  ago  to  encourage  me 
applies  to  you,  too — and  more — more.  You  do 
live.  You  are  what  you  long  to  be.  That  ideal 
you're  always  trying  to  grasp — don't  you  know 
why  you  can't  grasp  it,  Pauline?  Because  it's 
your  own  self,  your  own  image  reflected  as  in  a 
mirror." 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  acutely  conscious  that 
he  was  leaning  far  over  the  barrier  between  them. 
There  was  a  distant  shout,  from  vigorous,  boyish 
lungs.  Gardiner,  mad  with  the  joy  of  healthy 
seven,  came  running  and  jumping  across  the  field 
to  land  with  a  leap  astride  the  hillock,  scattering 
wisps  of  hay  over  his  mother  and  Scarborough. 
Pauline  turned  without  getting  up,  caught  her 
boy  by  the  arms  and  with  mock  violence  shook 
and  thrust  him  deep  down  into  the  damaged 
hillock.  She  seemed  to  be  making  an  outlet  for 
some  happiness  too  great  to  be  contained.  He 
laughed  and  shouted  and  struggled,  pushed  and 
pulled  her.  Her  hat  fell  off,  her  hair  loosened 
and  the  sun  showered  gold  of  many  shades  upon 


TWO  AND  THE  BARRIER  221 

it  She  released  him  and  stood  up,  straightening 
and  smoothing  her  hair  and  breathing  quickly, 
the  color  high  in  her  cheeks. 

Scarborough  was  already  standing,  watching 
her  with  an  expression  of  great  cheerfulness. 
"Good-by,"  he  now  said.  "The  caravan" — his 
tone  was  half-jesting,  half-serious — "has  been 
spending  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  day  on  the 
oasis.  It  makes  night  journeys  only.  It  must 
push  on." 

"Night  journeys  only,"  repeated  Pauline. 
"That  sounds  gloomy." 

"But  there  are  the  stars — and  the  moon." 

She  laughed.  "And  other  oases  ahead.  Good- 
by — and  thank  you !" 

The  boy,  close  to  his  mother  and  facing  Scar 
borough,  was  looking  from  her  to  him  and  back 
again — curiously,  it  almost  seemed  suspiciously. 
Both  noticed  it;  both  flushed  slightly.  Scarbor 
ough  shook  hands  with  her,  bowed  to  the  little 
boy  with  a  formality  and  constraint  that  might 
have  seemed  ludicrous  to  an  onlooker.  He  went 
toward  his  horse;  Gardiner  and  his  mother  took 
the  course  at  right  angles  across  the  field  in  the 
'direction  in  which  the  towers  of  the  Eyrie  could 
be  seen  above  the  tree-tops.  Suddenly  the  boy 


222  THE  COST 

said,  as  if  it  were  the  conclusion  of  a  long  internal 
argument:  "I  like  Mr.  Scarborough." 

"Why  not?"  asked  his  mother,  amused. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  replied  the  boy.  "Anyhow, 
I  like  him.  I  wish  he'd  come  and  stay  with  us 
and  Aunt  Gladys." 

Gladys!  The  reminder  made  her  uncomfort 
able,  made  her  feel  that  she  ought  to  be  remorse 
ful.  But  she  hastened  on  to  defend  herself. 
What  reason  had  she  to  believe  that  Gladys  cared 
for  him,  except  as  she  always  cared  for  difficult 
conquest?  Hadn't  Gladys  again  and  again  gone 
out  of  her  way  to  explain  that  she  wasn't  in  love 
with  him?  Hadn't  she  said,  only  two  days  be 
fore:  "I  don't  believe  I  could  fall  in  love  with 
any  man.  Certainly  I  couldn't  unless  he  had 
made  it  very  clear  to  me  that  he  was  in  love  with 


me." 


Pauline  had  latterly  been  suspecting  that  these 
elaborations  of  superfluous  protestation  were 
Gladys'  efforts  to  curtain  herself.  Now  she  dwelt 
upon  them  with  eager  pleasure,  and  assured  and 
reassured  herself  that  she  had  been  supersensitive 
and  that  Gladys  had  really  been  frank  and  truth-* 
ful  with  her. 


XVIII. 

ON  THE  FARM. 

On  his  way  down  the  bluffs  to  town  Scarbor 
ough  felt  as  calm  and  peaceful  as  that  tranquil 
evening.  He  had  a  sense  of  the  end  of  a  long 
strain  of  which  he  had  until  then  been  uncon 
scious.  "Now  I  can  go  away  and  rest,"  he  said 
to  himself.  And  at  sundown  he  set  out  for  his 
farm. 

He  arrived  at  ten  o'clock,  by  moonlight,  amid 
a  baying  of  dogs  so  energetic  that  it  roused  every 
living  thing  in  the  barnyard  to  protest  in  a  peevish 
chorus  of  clucking  and  grunting  and  quacking 
and  squealing. 

"What  on  airth !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gabbard,  his 
farmer's  wife,  standing  at  the  back  door,  in  calico 
skirt  and  big  shawl.  When  she  saw  who  it  was, 
her  irritated  voice  changed  to  welcome.  "Why, 
howdy,  Mr.  Scarborough!  I  thought  it  was  old 
John  Lovel  among  the  chickens  or  at  the  granary. 
I  might  'a'  knowed  he  wouldn't  come  in  the  full 
of  the  moon  and  no  clouds." 

"Go  straight  back  to  bed,  Mrs.  Gabbard,  and 
223 


224  THE  COST 

don't  mind  me,"  said  Scarborough.  "I  looked 
after  my  horse  and  don't  want  anything  to  eat. 
SVhere's  Eph?" 

"Can't  you  hear?"  asked  Mrs.  Gabbard,  dryly. 
And  in  the  pause  a  lusty  snore  penetrated.  "When 
anything  out  of  the  way  happens,  I  get  up  and 
nose  around  to  see  whether  it's  worth  while  to 
wake  him." 

Scarborough  laughed.  "I've  come  for  a  few 
clays — to  get  some  exercise,"  he  said.  "But  don't 
wake  me  with  the  others  to-morrow  morning. 
I'm  away  behind  on  sleep  and  dead  tired." 

He  went  to  bed — the  rooms  up-stairs  in  front 
were  reserved  for  him  and  were  always  ready. 
His  brain  was  apparently  as  busy  and  as  deter 
mined  not  to  rest  as  on  the  worst  of  his  many 
bad  nights  during  the  past  four  months.  But 
the  thoughts  were  vastly  different;  and  soon 
those  millions  of  monotonous  murmurings  from 
brook  and  field  and  forest  were  soothing  his 
senses.  He  slept  soundly,  with  that  complete 
relaxing  of  every  nerve  and  muscle  which  does  not 
come  until  the  mind  wholly  yields  up  its  despotic 
control  and  itself  plunges  kito  slumber  unfathom 
able. 

[The  change  of  the  air  with  dawn  slowly  wak- 


ON  THE  FARM  225 

ened  him.  It  was  only  a  little  after  five,  but  he 
[felt  refreshed.  He  got  himself  into  farm  work 
ing  clothes  and  went  down  to  the  summer  dining- 
room — a  shed  against  the  back  of  the  house  with 
three  of  its  walls  latticed.  In  the  adjoining  kitchen 
Mrs.  Gabbard  and  her  daughters,  Sally  and 
Bertha,  were  washing  the  breakfast  dishes — Gab- 
bard  and  his  two  sons  and  the  three  "hands"  had 
just  started  for  the  meadows  with  the  hay 
wagons. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Scarborough,  looking  in 
on  the  three  women. 

They  stopped  work  and  smiled  at  him,  and  the 
girls  dried  their  hands  and  shook  hands  with  him 
— all  with  an  absolute  absence  of  embarrassment 
that,  to  one  familiar  with  the  awkward  shyness 
of  country  people,  would  have  told  almost  the 
whole  story  of  Scarborough's  character.  "I'll 
get  you  some  breakfast  in  the  dining-room,"  said 
Mrs.  Gabbard. 

"No — just  a  little — on  the  corner  of  the  table 
out  here,"  replied  Scarborough. 

Mrs.  Gabbard  and  Sally  bustled  about  while  he 
stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  shed,  looking  out 
into  the  yard  and  watching  the  hens  make  their 
careful  early  morning  tour  of  the  inclosure  to 


THE  COST 

glean  whatever  might  be  there  before  scattering 
for  the  day's  excursions  and  depredations.  He 
had  not  long  to  wait  and  he  did  not  linger  over 
what  was  served. 

"You've  et  in  a  manner  nothing,"  complained 
Mrs.  Gabbard. 

"I  haven't  earned  an  appetite  yet,"  he  replied. 
"Just  wait  till  this  evening." 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  view  he  gave  a  great 
shout  and  started  to  run.  "What  folly  to  bother 
with  a  foolish,  trouble-breeding  thinking  appara 
tus  in  a  world  like  this!"  he  thought,  as  the 
tremendous  currents  of  vitality  surged  through 
him.  And  he  vaulted  a  six-rail  fence  and  ran 
on.  Down  the  hollow  drenched  with  dew,  across 
the  brook  which  was  really  wjde  enough  to  Be 
called  a  creek,  up  the  steep  slope  of  the  opposite 
hill  at  a  slower  pace,  and  he  was  at  the  edge  of 
the  meadows.  The  sun  was  clear  of  the  horizon 
now,  and  the  two  wagons,  piled  high  with  hay 
and  "poled  down"  to  keep  the  loads  steady,  were 
about  to  move  off  to  the  barn. 

"Bring  back  a  fork  for  me,  Bill !"  he  called  to 
the  driver  of  the  nearer  wagon — Bill  was  stand 
ing  on  the  lofty  top  of  his  load,  which  projected 
forward  and  rear  so  far  that,  forward,  the  horses 


ON  THE  FARM  227 

were  half  canopied.  Against  Bill's  return  he 
borrowed  Gabbard's  fork  and  helped  complete  the 
Other  wagon,  the  sweat  streaming  from  his  face 
as  his  broad  shoulders  swung  down  with  the 
empty  fork  and  up  with  a  great  mat  of  hay. 

They  worked  alternately  in  the  fields  and  at 
the  barns  until  half-past  eleven.  Then  they  went 
into  the  shade  at  the  edge  of  the  meadow  and 
had  their  dinner. 

"My  old  woman,"  said  Gabbard,  "says  that 
two  set-down  meals  a  day  in  harvest  time's  as 
many  as  she'll  stand  for.  So  we  have  dinner  out 
here  in  good  weather,  and  to  the  barn  when  it 


rains." 


The  talk  was  of  weather  prospects,  of  probable 
tonnage  to  the  acre,  of  the  outlook  for  the  corn, 
of  the  health  and  family  expectations  of  the  mares 
and  the  cows  and  the  pigs.  It  died  away  grad 
ually  as  one  man  after  another  stretched  out  upon 
his  back  with  a  bunch  of  hay  for  an  odorous 
pillow  and  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  for  a 
light-shade.  Scarborough  was  the  fourth  man  to 
yield;  as  he  dozed  off  his  hat  was  hiding  that 
smile  of  boundless  content  which  comes  only  to 
him  who  stretches  his  well  body  upon  grass  or 
soft  stubble  and  feels  the  vigor  of  the  earth  steal 


228  THE  COST 

up  and  through  him.  "Why  don't  I  do  this 
oftener?"  Scarborough  was  saying  to  himself.  "I 
must — and  I  shall,  now  that  my  mind's  more  at 
ease." 

A  long  afternoon  of  the  toil  that  tires  and  vexes 
not,  and  at  sundown  he  was  glad  to  ride  home  on 
top  of  the  last  wagon  instead  of  walking  as  he 
had  intended.  The  supper-table  was  ready — was 
spread  in  the  dining-shed.  They  washed  their 
hands  and  sunburnt  arms  and  soused  their  heads 
in  cold  water  from  the  well,  and  sat,  Scarborough 
at  one  end,  Gabbard  at  the  other,  the  strapping 
sons  and  the  "hands"  down  either  side.  The 
whole  meal  was  before  them — huge  platters  of 
fried  chicken,  great  dishes  full  of  beans  and  corn 
and  potatoes;  plates  piled  high  with  hot  corn 
bread,  other  plates  of  "salt-rising" ;  Mrs.  Gabbard's 
miraculous  apple  pies,  and  honey  for  which  the 
plundered  flowers  might  still  be  mourning.  Yes 
terday  it  would  have  seemed  to  Scarborough 
dinner  enough  for  a  regiment.  To-day — he 
thought  he  could  probably  eat  it  all,  and  wished 
that  he  might  try.  To  drink,  there  were  coffee 
and  cider  and  two  kinds  of  milk.  He  tried  the 
buttermilk  and  kept  on  with  it. 

"You   must   'a'   had   a  busy   summer,"    said 


ON  THE  FARM  229 

Gabbard.  ".This  is  the  first  time  you've  been 
with  us." 

"Yes,"  Scarborough  replied.  "I  did  hope  to 
get  here  for  the  threshing,  but  I  couldn't." 

The  threshing  set  them  all  off — it  had  been  a 
record  year;  thirty-eight  bushels  to  the  acre  on 
the  average,  twenty-seven  on  the  hillsides  which 
Gabbard  had  hesitated  whether  to  "put  in"  or  not. 
An  hour  after  supper  Scarborough  could  no 
longer  hold  his  eyes  open.  "Wake  me  with  the 
others,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Gabbard,  who  was  mak 
ing  up  the  "salt-rising"  yeast  for  the  morrow's 
baking.  "I'll  have  breakfast  when  they  do." 

"I  reckon  you've  earned  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gabbard. 
"Eph  says  you  laid  it  over  'em  all  to-day." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  at  least  earned  my  supper," 
replied  Scarborough.  "And  I  guess  I  ate  it." 

"You  didn't  do  so  bad,  considerin',"  Mrs.  Gab 
bard  admitted.  "Nothin'  like  livin'  in  town  to 
take  appetite  away." 

"That  isn't  all  it  takes  away,"  said  Scarbor 
ough,  going  on  to  his  own  part  of  the  house 
without  explaining  his  remark.  When  his  head 
touched  the  pillow  his  brain  instantly  stopped  the 
machinery.  He  needed  no  croonings  or  dron- 
ings  from  the  fields  to  soothe  him.  "Not  an  idea 


230  THE  COST 

in  my  head  all  day,"  he  said  to  himself  witfi 
drowsy  delight. 

Four  days  of  this,  and  on  the  fifth  came  the 
Outside  world  in  the  form  oi  Burdick,  chairman 
of  the  county  committee  of  his  party  in  the  county 
in  which  his  farm  lay.  They  sat  on  the  fence 
under  the  big  maple,  out  of  earshot  of  the  others. 
"Larkin's  come  out  for  John  Frankfort  for  the 
nomination  for  governor,"  said  Burdick. 

Scarborough  smiled.  "Even  Larkin  couldn't 
get  it  for  Frankfort — he's  too  notorious." 

"He  don't  want  to  get  it  for  him,"  replied 
Burdick.  "His  real  man's  Judge  Graney." 

Scarborough  stopped  fanning  himself  with  his 
wide-brimmed  straw.  Judge  Graney  was  the  most 
adroit  and  dangerous  of  John  Dumont's  tools. 
He  had  given  invaluable  aid  from  the  bench  at 
several  of  the  National  Woolens  Company's  most 
critical  moments.  Yet  he  had  retained  and  in 
creased  his  popularity  and  his  reputation  by  de 
ciding  against  his  secret  master  with  a  brave  show 
pf  virtue  when  he  knew  the  higher  courts  must 
reverse  him.  For  several  years  Scarborough  had 
been  looking  forward  to  the  inevitable  open  con 
flict  between  the  forces  of  honesty  in  his  party 


ON  THE  FARM  231 

and  the  forces  of  the  machine  as  ruled  by  the 
half-dozen  big  corporations  who  also  ruled  the 
machine  of  the  opposition  party.  He  had 
known  that  the  contest  must  come,  and  that  he 
must  take  part  in  it;  and  he  had  been  getting 
ready.  But  he  had  not  wished  to  give  battle  until 
he  was  strong  enough  to  give  a  battle  which,  even 
if  he  lost  it,  would  not  strengthen  the  hold  of  the 
corruptionists. 

After  he  rejected  Larkin's  dazzling  offers, 
conditioned  upon  his  aloofness  rather  than 
frank  subservience,  he  had  thought  the  whole 
situation  over,  and,  as  he  hinted  to  Pauline,  had 
realized  how  apparently  hopeless  a  fight  against 
the  machine  would  be  just  then,  with  the  people 
prosperous  and  therefore  quiescent.  And  he  had 
decided  to  stand  aside  for  the  time.  He  now  saw 
that  reluctance  to  attack  Dumont  had  been  at  least 
a  factor  in  this  decision;  and  he  also  saw  that 
he  could  not  delay,  as  he  had  hoped.  There  was 
no  escape — either  he  must  let  his  work  of  years 
be  undermined  and  destroyed  or  he  must  give 
battle  with  all  his  strength  and  skill.  He  remem 
bered  what  Pauline  had  said :  "You  can't  lose !" 

"No,  one  can't  lose  in  this  sort  of  fight,"  he; 
thought.  "Either  we  win  or  there'll  be  no  vie- 


232  THE  COST 

tory."  He  sprang  from  the  fence  to  the  groun'd. 
"Let's  go  to  the  house,"  he  said  to  Burdick. 

"What  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Burdick,  as 
they  walked  toward  the  gate,  where  his  horse  and 
buggy  were  hitched. 

"Fight,  of  course,"  said  Scarborough.  "Fight 
Larkin  and  his  gang  in  the  open.  I'll  get  ex^ 
Governor  Bowen  to  let  us  use  his  name  and 
canvass  the  state  for  him." 

Burdick  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"It  ain't  politics,"  he  said.  "You'll  split  the; 
party ;  then  the  party'll  turn  and  split  you."  And 
later,  as  they  were  separating,  Scarborough  to 
drive  to  Saint  X,  Burdick  to»  go  back  to  Marshal- 
town,  he  said :  "I'll  help  all  I  can  in  a  quiet  way. 
But — I  hope  you've  got  your  cyclone  cellar  dug." 

Scarborough  laughed.  "I  haven't  been  dig 
ging  a  cyclone  cellar.  I've  been  trying  to  manu 
facture  a  cyclone." 

There  were  thirty-three  clear  days  before  the 
meeting  of  the  convention.  He  wasted  not  an 
hour  of  them  on  the  manufacturing  towns;  he; 
went  to  the  country — to  the  farmers  and  the  vil 
lagers,  the  men  who  lived  each  man  in  his  own 
house,  on  his  own  soil  from  which  he  earned  his 
pwn  living.  Up  and  down  and  across  the  state 


ON  THE  FARM  233 

fie  went,  speaking,  organizing,  planning,  inspir 
ing — he  and  the  coterie  of  young  men  who  looked 
up  to  him  as  their  leader  and  followed  him  in  this 
desperate  assault  as  courageously  as  if  victory 
were  assured. 

Not  long  before  the  convention  he  paused  at 
ex- Judge  Bowen's  country  place  and  spent  two 
hours  with  him  in  his  great,  quiet,  cool  library. 

"Isn't  it  inspiring,"  Scarborough  said,  "to  see 
so  many  young  men  in  arms  for  a  principle?" 

The  old  man  slowly  shook  his  magnificent  white 
head  and  smiled  at  the  young  man.  "Principles 
without  leaders  go  begging,"  he  replied.  "Men 
rally  to  the  standard  only  when  the  right  voice 
calls.  The  right  voice  at  the  right  time."  He 
laid  his  hand  on  Scarborough's  shoulder  with 
affection  and  pride.  "If  the  moment  should  come 
for  you  to  think  of  it,  do  not  forget  that  the 
leader  is  the  principle,  and  that  in  this  fight  the 
leader  is  not  I — but  you." 


XIX. 

PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS. 

Larkin  decided  that  the  state  convention  should 
be  held  at  Saint  X  because  his  machine  was  most 
perfect  there.  The  National  Woolens  Company, 
the  Consolidated  Pipe  and  Wire  Company  and 
the  Indiana  Oil  and  Gas  Corporation — the  three 
principal  political  corporations  in  the  state — had 
their  main  plants  there  and  were  in  complete 
political  control.  While  Larkin  had  no  fear  of 
the  Scarborough  movement,  regarding  it  as  a 
sentimental  outburst  in  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
party  that  would  die  away  when  its  fomenter  had 
been  "read  out  of  the  party"  at  the  convention 
by  the  regular  organization,  still  he  had  been  in 
the  game  too  long  to  take  unnecessary  chances. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  wise  to  have  the  delegates 
assemble  where  all  the  surroundings  would  be 
favorable  and  where  his  ablest  and  confidential 
men  could  do  their  work  in  peace  and  quiet. 

The  convention  was  to  meet  on  the  last  Thurs-* 
day  in  September.     On  the  preceding  Monday, 
morning,  Culver — Dumont's  small,  thin,  stealthy 
234 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS          235 

private  secretary — arrived  at  Saint  X  and,  after 
making  an  appointment  with  Merriweather  for 
half-past  twelve,  went  out  to  the  Eyrie  to  got 
through  a  lot  of  accumulated  domestic  business 
with  Mrs.  Dumont.  When  she  in  a  most  formal 
and  unencouraging  manner  invited  him  to  stop 
there,  he  eagerly  accepted.  "Thank  you  so 
much,"  he  said  effusively.  "To  be  perfectly 
frank,  I've  been  tempted  to  invite  myself.  I  have 
some  valuables  with  me  that  I  don't  feel  at  all 
easy  about.  If  I  should  be  robbed,  it  would  be 
a  very  serious  matter.  Would  it  be  asking  too 
much  of  you  to  ask  you  to  put  a  package  in  your, 
jewel  safe?" 

'"I'll  be  glad  to  do  it  for  you/'  replied  Pauline. 
"There's  plenty  of  room — the  safe's  almost  empty, 
and  it's  ridiculously  large." 

"My  package  isn't  small,"  said  Culver.  "And 
on  my  mind  it  weighs  tons."  He  reached  into 
his  large  bag — at  sight  of  it  Pauline  had  wondered 
why  he  had  brought  such  a  bag  up  from  the  hotel 
when  his  papers  for  her  inspection  were  so  few. 
He  lifted  out  an  oblong,  bulky  package. 

"If  you'll  just  touch  that  button,"  said  she, 
"James  will  come  and  show  you  how  to  get  to  the 
safe." 


236  THE  COST 

Culver  hesitated  nervously.  Finally  he  said: 
*Tm  making  a  nuisance  of  myself,  Mrs.  Dumont, 
but  would  you  mind  going  to  the  safe  with  me? 
I'd  much  rather  none  of  the  servants  knew  about 
this." 

Pauline  smiled  and  bade  him  follow  her.  They 
went  to  her  private  sitting-room  and  she  showed 
him  the  safe,  in  a  small  closet  built  into  the  lower 
part  of  the  book-case.  "You  have  the  combina 
tion  ?"  asked  Culver,  as  he  put  the  package  away. 
"I  see  that  you  don't  lock  this  door  often." 

"How  fortunate  you  spoke  of  it!"  said  she. 
"The  combination  is  on  a  bit  of  paper  in  one  of 
the  little  drawers." 

Culver  found  it  in  the  first  drawer  he  opened, 
and  handed  it  to  her  without  looking  at  it. 

"Yon  mustn't  let  me  know  it,"  said  he.  "I'll 
[just  fix  the  time  lock  so  that  it  won't  interfere." 
'And  when  he  had  done  so,  he  closed  the  safe.  As 
he  left,  he  said,  "I  shall  only  bother  you  to  let 
me  sleep  in  the  house.  I'll  be  very  busy  all  day 
each  day  I'm  here."  When  she  thought  he  had 
gone  he  returned  to  add:  "Perhaps  I'd  better 
explain  to  you  that  there's  forty-five  thousand 
Collars  in  cash  in  the  package.  That's  why  I  was 
so  anxious  for  no  one  to  know." 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS          237 

"I'll  say  nothing  about  it,"  Pauline  assured  him. 

Larkin  came  down  from  Indianapolis  the  next 
day  and  registered  at  the  Palace  Hotel.  As  soon 
as  he  could  escape  from  the  politicians  and,  news 
paper  correspondents  in  the  hotel  office,  he  went 
by  a  devious  route  to  a  room  on  the  floor  below 
his  own  and,  knocking,  was  admitted  to  Culver 
and  Merriweather.  He  nodded  to  Dumont's  po 
litical  agent,  then  said  to  Culver:  "You've  got 
the  dough?" 

"Yes,"  Culver  answered,  in  his  best  imitation 
of  the  tone  of  the  man  of  large  affairs.  "In 
twenties,  fifties  and  hundreds." 

"I  hope,  mighty  few  hundreds,"  said  Larkin. 
"The  boys  are  kind  o'  shy  about  changing  hun 
dred-dollar  bills.  It  seems  to  attract  attention 
to  them."  He  had  large,  dreamy,  almost  senti 
mental,  brown  eyes  that  absurdly  misrepresented 
his  character,  or,  at  least,  his  dominant  character 
istics.  His  long,  slightly  bent  nose  and  sharp  chin 
and  thin,  tight  mouth  were  more  truthful. 

"How  do  things  look,  Joe?"  asked  Merri-* 
weather. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Dumont  asked  me  to  telegraph  him 
after  I'd  talked  with  you,"  said  Culver.  "Has 
Scarborough  made  much  headway?" 


238  THE  COST 

"I  must  say,  he's  raised  a  darn  sight  more  hell 
than  I  thought  he  would,"  Larkin  answered. 
'The  people  seem  to  be  in  a  nasty  mood  about 
corruption.  Darn  their  fool  souls,  as  if  they 
wouldn't  be  in  the  rottenest  kind  of  a  fix,  with 
no  property  and  no  jobs,  if  we  didn't  keep  the 
ignorant  vote  under  control  and  head  off  such 
firebrands  as  this  fellow  Scarborough." 

"Got  any  figgers?"  demanded  Merriweather, 
who  had  listened  to  this  tirade  with  an  expression 
suggesting  cynicism.  He  thought,  and  he  knew 
Joe  Larkin  thought,  politics  a  mere  game  of 
chance — you  won  or  you  didn't  win;  and  prin 
ciples  and  oratory  and  likes  and  dislikes  and 
resentments  were  so  much  "hot  air."  If  the  "oil 
can"  had  been  with  Scarborough,  Merriweather 
would  have  served  him  as  cheerfully  and  as  loy 
ally  as — well,  as  would  Joe  Larkin  in  those  cir 
cumstances. 

Larkin  wrenched  a  big  bunch  of  letters  and 
papers  from  the  sagged  inside  pocket  of  his 
slouchy  sack  coat ;  after  some  fumbling  and  sort 
ing,  he  paused  upon  the  back  of  a  dirty  envelope. 

"Here's  how  the  convention  stands,  to  a  man," 
he  said.  "Sure,  two  hundred  and  sixty-seven — * 
by  'sure*  I  mean  the  fellows  we  own  outright. 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS          239 

Safe,  two  hundred  and  forty-five — by  'safe'  I 
mean  those  that'll  stand  by  the  organization,  thick 
and  thin.  Insurgents,  two  hundred  and  ninety- 
five — those  are  the  chaps  that've  gone  clean  crazy 
with  Scarborough.  Doubtful,  three  hundred  and 
eighty-six — some  of  'em  can  be  bought ;  most  of 
'em  are  waiting  to  see  which  way  the  cat  jumps, 
so  as  to  jump  with  her." 

"Then  we've  got  five  hundred  and  twelve,  and 
it  takes  five  hundred  and  ninety-seven  to  elect," 
said  Merriweather,  the  instant  the  last  word  was 
out  of  Larkin's  mouth.  Merriweather  was  a  mite 
of  a  man,  could  hardly  have  weighed  more  than 
a  hundred  pounds,  had  a  bulging  forehead,  was 
bald  and  gray  at  the  temples,  eyes  brown  as 
walnut  juice  and  quick  and  keen  as  a  rat-terrier's. 
His  expression  was  the  gambler's — calm,  watch 
ful,  indifferent,  pallid,  as  from  years  of  nights 
under  the  gas-light  in  close,  hot  rooms,  with  the 
cards  sliding  from  the  faro  box  hour  after  hour. 

"Eighty-five  short  —  that's  right,"  assented 
Larkin.  Then,  with  a  look  at  Culver:  "And 
some  of  'em'll  come  mighty  high." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  do  business  witH 
them?"  inquired  Merriweather.  "Here?" 

"Right  here  in  this  room,  where  I've  done  it 


240  THE  COST 

many's  the  time  before,"  replied  Larkin.  "To 
morrow  night  Conkey  Sedgwick  and  my  boy 
rTom'll  begin  steerin'  'em  in  one  at  a  time  about 
eight  o'clock." 

"Then  I'll  turn  the  money  over  to  you  at  seven 
to-morrow  night,"  said  Culver.  "I've  got  it  in 
a.  safe  place." 

"Not  one  of  the  banks,  I  hope,"  said  Merri- 
iweather. 

"We  noted  your  suggestions  on  that  point,  and 
on  all  the  others,"  Culver  answered  with  gracious 
condescension.  "That's  why  I  brought  cash  in 
small  denominations  and  didn't  go  near  anybody 
with  it." 

Larkin  rose.  "I've  got  to  get  to  work.  See 
you  here  to-morrow  night  at  seven,  Mr.  Culver — 
seven  sharp.  I  guess  it'll  be  Judge  Graney  on 
the  third  ballot.  On  the  first  ballot  the  organi- 
zation'll  vote  solid  for  Graney,  and  my  fellows'll 
vote  for  John  Frankfort.  On  the  second  ballot 
half  my  Frankfort  crowd'll  switch  over  to  Gra 
ney.  On  the  third  I'll  put  the  rest  of  'em  over, 
and  that'll  be  enough  to  elect — probably  the 
Scarborough  crowd'll  see  it's  no  use  and  let  us 
make  it  unanimous.  -The  losers  are  always  hot 
for  harmony." 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS          241] 

"That  sounds  well,"  said  Merriweather — hist 
was  a  voice  that  left  his  hearers  doubtful  whether 
he  meant  what  his  words  said  or  the  reverse. 

Culver  looked  with  secret  admiration  from  one 
man  to  the  other,  and  continued  to  think  of  them 
and  to  admire,  after  they  had  gone.  He  felt 
important,  sitting  in  and  by  proxy  directing  the 
councils  o>f  these  powerful  men,  these  holders 
and  manipulators  of  the  secret  strings  whereto 
were  attached  puppet  peoples  and  puppet  politi 
cians.  Seven  years  behind  the  scenes  with  Du- 
mont's  most  private  affairs  had  given  him  a 
thoroughgoing  contempt  for  the  mass  of  mankind. 
Did  he  not  sit  beside  the  master,  at  the  innermost 
wheels,  deep  at  the  very  heart  o>f  the  intricate 
mechanism?  Did  not  that  position  make  him  a 
sort  of  master,  at  any  rate  far  superior  to  the 
princeliest  puppet? 

At  five  the  next  afternoon — the  afternoon  of 
the  day  before  the  convention' — he  was  at  the 
Eyrie,  and  sent  a  servant  to  say  to  Mrs.  Dumont 
that  he  would  like  to  see  her.  She  came  down 
to  him  in  the  library. 

"I'm  only  troubling  you  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 
"I'll  relieve  you  o>f  my  package." 

"Very  well,"  said  Pauline.     "I  haven't  thought 


THE  COST 

of  it  since  day  before  yesterday.  I'll  bring  it 
down  to  you." 

She  left  him  in  the  library  and  went  up  the 
stairs — she  had  been  reading  everything  that  was 
published  about  the  coming  convention,  and  the 
evident  surprise  of  all  the  politicians  at  the 
strength  Scarborough  was  mustering  for  ex- 
Governor  Bowen  had  put  her  in  high  good  humor. 
She  cautioned  herself  that  he  could  not  carry  the 
convention ;  but  his  showing  was  a  moral  victory 
— and  what  a  superb  personal  triumph!  With 
everything  against  him — money  and  the  machine 
and  the  skilful  confusing  of  the  issues  by  his 
crafty  opponents — he  had  rallied  about  him  almost 
all  that  was  really  intelligent  in  his  party;  and 
he  had  demonstrated  that  he  had  on  his  side  a 
mass  of  the  voters  large  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  number  of  delegates  he  had  wrested  away 
from  the  machine — nearly  three  hundred,  when 
everybody  had  supposed  the  machine  would  retain 
all  but  a  handful. 

Money !  Her  lips  curled  scornfully — out  here, 
in  her  own  home,  among  these  simple  people,  the 
brutal  power  of  money  was  master  just  as  in 
New  York,  among  a  people  crazed  by  the  passion 
Efor  luxury  and  display. 


HER  EXPRESSION   PUT   HIM   IN   A    PANIC 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS 

She  was  kneeling  before  the  safe,  was  working 
the  combination,  paper  in  hand.  The  knob 
clicked  as  the  rings  fell  into  place ;  she  turned  the 
bolt  and  swung  the  door  open.  She  reached  into 
the  safe.  Suddenly  she  drew  her  hand  back  and 
sat  up  on  the  floor,  looking  at  the  package.  "Why, 
it's  for  use  in  the  convention !"  she  exclaimed. 

She  did  not  move  for  several  minutes;  when 
she  did,  it  was  to  examine  the  time  lock,  to  reset 
it,  to  close  the  door  and  bolt  it  and  throw  the  lock 
off  the  combination.  Then  she  rose  and  slowly 
descended  to  the  library.  As  she  reappeared, 
empty-handed,  Culver  started  violently  and  scru 
tinized  her  face.  Its  expression  put  him  in  a 
panic.  "Mrs.  Dumont!"  he  exclaimed  wildly. 
"Has  it  been  stolen?" 

Shs  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said.  "It's 
there." 

Trembling  from  weakness  in  the  reaction,  he 
leaned  against  the  table,  wiping  his  sweating  brow 
with  sweating  hands. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  "it  must  stay  there." 

He  looked  open-mouthed  at  her. 

"You  have  brought  the  money  out  here  for  use 
in  the  convention,"  she  went  on1  with  perfect  calm 
ness.  "You  have  tried  to  make  me  a  partner  in 


244  THE  COST 

that  vile  business.  And — I  refuse  to  play  tHe 
part  assigned  me.  I  shall  keep  the  money  until 
the  convention  is  over." 

He  looked  round  like  a  terror-stricken  drowiW 
ing  man,  about  to  sink  for  the  last  time. 

"I'm  ruined !  I'm  ruined !"  he  almost  screamed. 

"No-,"  she  said,  still  calm.  "You  will  not  be 
ruined,  though  you  deserve  to  be.  But  I  under 
stand  why  you  have  become  callous  to  the  com 
monplace  decencies  of  life,  and  I  shall  see  to  it 
that  no  harm  comes  to  you." 

"Mr.  Dumont  will — destroy  me!  You  don't 
realize,  Mrs.  Dumont.  Vast  property  interests 
are  at  stake  on  the  result  of  this  convention — 
that's  our  cause.  And  you  are  imperiling  it !" 

"Imperiling  a  cause  that  needs  lies  and  bribes 
to  save  it?"  she  said  ironically.  "Please  calm 
yourself,  Mr.  Culver.  You  certainly  can't 
be  blamed  for  putting  your  money  in  a  safe  place. 
I  take  the  responsibility  for  the  rest.  And  when 
you  tell  Mr.  Dumont  exactly  what  happened,  you 
will  not  be  blamed  or  injured  in  any  way." 

"I  shall  telegraph  him  at  once,"  he  warned  her. 

"Certainly,"  said  Pauline.  "He  might  blame 
you  severely  for  failing  to  do  that." 

He  paused  in  his  pacing  up  and  down  the:  room* 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS 

He  flung  his  arms  toward  her,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"I  will  have  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  hear 
me,  I  will!  I'll  bring  men  from  down-town  and 
have  the  safe  blown  open.  The  money  is  not 
yours — it  is " 

She  advanced  to  the  bell. 

"Another  word,  Mr.  Culver,  and  I'll  have  the 
servants  show  you  the  door.  Yours  is  a  strange 
courage — to  dare  to  speak  thus  to  me  when  your 
head  should  be  hanging  in  shame  for  trying  to 
make  such  base  use  of  me  and  my  courtesy  and 
friendliness." 

His  arms  dropped,  and  he  lowered  his  head. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  humbly.  "I'm  not 
myself.  I  think  I'm  going  insane.  Pity  me!" 

Pauline  looked  at  him  sadly.  "I  wish  I  had 
the  right  to.  But — I  sympathise,  and  I'm  sorry — • 
so  sorry — to  have  to  do  this."  A  pause,  then — 
"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Culver."  And  she  moved  to 
ward  the  door.  At  the  threshold  she  turned.  "I 
must  say  one  thing  further — the  convention  must 
not  be  put  off.  If  it  is  adjourned  to-morrow  with 
out  making  nominations,  I  shall  understand  that 
you  are  getting  the  money  elsewhere.  And — I 
shall  be  compelled  to  put  such  facts  as  I  know  in 
the  possession  of — of  those  you  came  to  injure."' 
And  she  was  gone. 


THE  COST 

Culver  went  to  Merriweather's  office  and  sent 
put  for  him  and  Larkin.  When  they  arrived,  he 
Shut  the  doors  and  told  them  what  had  hap 
pened — and  in  his  manner  there  was  not  left  a 
trace  of  the  New  Yorker  and  ambassador  con 
descending  to  westerners  and  underlings.  Larkin 
cursed;  Merriweather  gave  no  outward  sign. 
Presently  Merriweather  said :  "Larkin,  you  must 
adjourn  the  convention  over  to-morrow.  Culver 
can  go  to  Chicago  and  get  back  with  the  money 
by  to-morrow  night." 

"No  use/'  groaned  Culver.  And  he  told  them 
the  last  part  of  his  talk  with  Mrs.  Dumont. 

"She  thought  of  that !"  said  Merriweather,  and 
he  looked  the  impartial  admiration  of  the  con 
noisseur  of  cleverness. 

"But  she'd  never  carry  out  her  threat — never  in 
the  world!"  persisted  Larkin. 

"If  you  had  seen  her  when  she  said  it,  and 
if  you'd  known  her  as  long  as  I  have,  you  wouldnyt 
say  that,"  replied  Culver.  "We  must  try  to  get 
the  money  here,  right  away — at  the  banks." 

"All  shut,"  said  Merriweather.  "I  wonder  how 
much  cash  there  is  at  the  Woolens  and  the  Oil  and 
Steel  offices?  We  must  get  together  as  much  as 
,we  can — quietly."  And  he  rapidly  outlined  a 


PAULINE  GOES  INTO  POLITICS  24? 

program  that  put  all  three  at  work  within  fifteen 
minutes.  They  met  again  at  seven.  Culver  had 
twenty-six  hundred  dollars,  Larkin  thirty-one 
hundred,  Merriweather,  who  had  kept  for  himself 
the  most  difficult  task,  had  only  twelve  hundred. 
"Sixty-nine  hundred,"  said  Merriweather,  eying 
the  heap  of  paper  in  packages  and  silver  in  bags. 

"Better  than  nothing,"  suggested  Culver,  with 
a  pitiful  attempt  to  be  hopeful. 

Merriweather  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Let's 
get  some  supper,"  he  said  to  Culver.  Then  to 
Larkin :  "Well,  Joe,  you'll  have  to  try  promises. 
Will  you  keep  this  cash  or  shall  I?" 

"You  might  as  well  keep  it,"  replied  Larkin, 
with  a  string  of  oaths.  "It'd  be  ruination  to  pay 
one  without  paying  all.  Perhaps  you  can  use 
some  of  it  between  ballots  to-morrow."  Then, 
sharply  to  Culver :  "You've  telegraphed  Mr.  Du- 
mont?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Culver.  "And  it  took  some 
time  as  I  had  to  put  the  whole  story  into  cipher." 

As  Culver  and  Merriweather  were  seated,  with 
the  dinner  before  them  which  Culver  did  not 
touch,  and  which  Merriweather  ate  placidly,  Cul 
ver  asked  him  whether  there  was  "any  hope 
at  all." 


248  THE  COST 

"There's  always  hope/'  replied  Merriweather. 
"Promises,  especially  from  Joe  Larkin,  will  go  a 
long  way,  though  they  don't  rouse  the  white  hot 
enthusiasm  that  cold  cash  in  the  pocket  does. 
iWe'll  pull  through  all  right."  He  ate  for  a  while 
in  silence.  Then:  "This  Mrs.  Dumont  must  be 
an  uncommon  woman."  A  few  more  mouthfuls 
and  with  his  small,  icy,  mirthless  laugh,  he  added  : 
"I've  got  one  something  like  her  at  home.  I  keep 
her  there." 

Culver  decided  to  spend  the  night  at  the  hotel. 
He  hung  round  the  hotel  office  until  two  in  the 
morning,  expecting  and  dreading  Dumont's  reply 
to  his  telegram.  But  nothing  came  either  for  him 
or  for  Merriweather.  "  Queer  we  don't  get  word 
of  some  sort,  isn't  it?"  said  he  to  Merriweather 
the  next  morning,  as  the  latter  was  leaving  for  the 
convention. 

Merriweather  made  no  reply  beyond  a  smile 
'so  faint  that  Culver  barely  saw  it. 

"She  was  right,  after  all,"  thought  Culver,  less 
despondent.  "I'll  get  the  money  just  before  I 
leave  and  take  it  back.  And  I'll  not  open  this 
subject  with  Dumont.  Maybe  he'll  never  speak 
of  it  to  me." 

And  Dumont  never  'did. 


XX. 

A  MAN  IN  HIS  MIGHT. 

Olivia  came  to  attend  the  convention  as  Fred 
was  a  delegate  from  Marion  County.  Pauline  and 
Gladys  accepted  her  invitation  and  shared  her  box 
— the  convention  was  held  in  the  Saint  X  Grand 
Opera  House,  the  second  largest  auditorium  in 
the  state.  Pauline,  in  the  most  retired  corner, 
could  not  see  the  Marion  County  delegation  into 
which  Scarborough  went  by  substitution.  But 
she  had  had  a  glimpse  of  him  as  she  came  in — he 
was  sitting  beside  Fred  Pierson  and  was  gazing 
straight  ahead,  as  if  lost  in  thought.  He  looked 
tired  and  worn,  but  not  cast  down. 

"You  should  have  been  here,  Polly,  when  Scar- 
bo-rough  came  in,"  said  Olivia,  who  was  just  in 
front  of  her.  "They  almost  tore  the  roof  off. 
He's  got  the  audience  with  him,  even  if  the  dele 
gates  aren't.  A  good  many  of  the  delegates 
applauded,  too,"  she  added — but  in  a  significantly 
depressed  tone. 

"Why  isn't  he  a  candidate,  Mrs.  Pierson?" 
asked  Gladys. 

249 


250  THE  COST 

"They  wanted  him  to  be,  of  course/'  replied 
Olivia,  "and  I  think  it  was  a  mistake  that  he 
didn't  consent.  But  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He 
said  it  simply  wouldn't  do  for  him  to  make  the 
fight  to  carry  the  convention  for  himself.  He  said 
that,  even  if  he  were  nominated,  the  other  side 
would  use  it  against  him." 

"That  seems  reasonable,"  said  Gladys. 

"But  it  isn't,"  replied  Olivia.  "He  may  not 
know  it  but  he  can  lead  men  where  they  wouldn't 
go  for  his  merely  sending  them." 

"I  suppose  it  was  his  modesty,"  suggested 
Gladys. 

"Modesty's  a  good  deal  of  a  vice,  especially  in  a 
leader,"  replied  Olivia. 

There  was  an  hour  of  dullness — routine  busi 
ness,  reports  of  committees,  wearisome  speeches. 
But,  like  every  one  of  those  five  thousand  people, 
Pauline  was  in  a  fever  of  anticipation.  For,  while 
it  was  generally  assumed  that  Scarborough  and 
his  friends  had  no  chance  and  while  Larkin  was 
apparently  carrying  everything  through  according 
to  program,  still  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  of 
such  a  man  as  Scarborough  accepting  defeat  on 
test  votes  tamely  taken.  He  would  surely  chal 
lenge.  Larkin  watched  him  uneasily,  wondering 


A  MAN   IN  HIS  MIGHT  251 

at  what  point  in  the  proceedings  the  gage  would 
be  flung  down.  Even  Merriweather  could  not 
keep  still,  but  flitted  about,  his  nervousness  of 
body  contrasting  strangely  with  his  calmness  of 
face;  himself  the  most  unquiet  man  in  the  hall, 
he  diffused  quiet  wherever  he  paused. 

At  last  came  the  call  for  nominations.  When 
the  secretary  of  the  convention  read  Cass  from 
the  roll  of  counties,  a  Larkin  henchman  rose  and 
spoke  floridly  for  twenty  minutes  on  the  virtues 
of  John  Frankfort,  put  up  as  the  Larkin  "draw- 
fire,"  the  pretended  candidate  whose  prearranged 
defeat  was  to  be  used  on  the  stump  as  proof  that 
Boss  Larkin  and  his  gang  had  been  downed.  At 
the  call  of  Hancock  County,  another — a  secret — > 
Larkin  henchman  rose  to  eulogize"that  stanch  foe 
of  corporate  corruption  and  aggression,  Hancock 
County's  favorite  son,  the  people's  judge,  Judge 
Edward  Howel  Graney !"  Then  the  roll-call  pro 
ceeded  amid  steadily  rising  excitement  which 
abruptly  died  into  silence  as  the  clerk  shouted, 
with  impressive  emphasis,  "Wayne!"  That  was 
the  home  county  of  the  Scarborough  candidate. 
A  Wayne  delegate  rose  and  in  a  single  sentence 
put  ex-Governor  Bowen  in  nomination.  There 
was  a  faint  ripple  of  applause  which  was  instantly 


252  THE  COST 

checked.    A  silence  of  several  seconds  and — 

"Mr.  Chairman,  and  gentle — " 

It  was  the  voice  Pauline  knew  so  well.  She 
could  not  see  him,  but  that  voice  seemed  to  make 
him  visible  to  her.  She  caught  her  breath  and 
her  heart  beat  wildly.  He  got  no  further  into 
seconding  Bowen's  nomination  than  the  middle  of 
the  fourth  word.  There  may  have  been  ears 
offended  by  the  thunder-clap  which  burst  in  that 
theater,  but  those  ears  were  not  Pauline's,  were 
not  in  Olivia  Pierson's  box.  And  then  came  tum 
bling  and  roaring,  huge  waves  of  adulation,  with 
his  name  shouted  in  voices  hoarse  and  voices  shrill 
like  hissing  foam  on  the  triumphant  crests  of 
billows.  And  Pauline  felt  as  if  she  were  lifted 
from  her  bodily  self,  were  tossing  in  a  delirium  of 
ecstasy  on  a  sea  of  sheer  delight. 

And  now  he  was  on  the  platform,  borne  there 
above  the  shoulders  of  a  hundred  men.  He 
was  standing  pale  and  straight  and  mighty.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand,  so  large  and  strong,  and 
somehow  as  honest  as  his  eyes ;  the  tempest  stilled. 
He  was  speaking — what  did  he  say?  She  hardly 
heard,  though  she  knew  that  it  was  of  and  for 
right  and  justice — what  else  could  that  voice  utter 
pr  the  brain  behind  those  proud  features  think? 


A  MAN  IN  HIS  MIGHT  253 

With  her,  and  with  all  there,  far  more  than  his 
words  it  was  his  voice,  like  music,  like  magic, 
rising  and  falling  in  thrilling  inflections  as  it 
wove  its  spell  of  gold  and  fire.  Whenever  he 
paused  there  would  be  an  instant  of  applause — a 
huge,  hoarse  thunder,  the  call  of  that  mysterious 
and  awful  and  splendid  soul  of  the  mass — an  in 
stant  full  of  that  one  great,  deep,  throbbing  note, 
then  silence  to  hear  him  again. 

Scarborough  had  measured  his  task — to  lift  that 
convention  from  the  slough  of  sordidness  to  which 
the  wiles  and  bribes  of  Dumont  and  his  clique 
had  lured  it;  to  set  it  in  the  highroad  of  what 
he  believed  with  all  his  intensity  to  be  the  high 
road  of  right.  Usually  he  spoke  with  feeling 
strongly  repressed ;  but  he  knew  that  if  he  was  to 
win  that  day  against  such  odds  he  must  take  those 
delegates  by  surprise  and  by  storm,  must  win  in 
a  suddenly  descended  whirlwind  of  passion  that 
would  engulf  calculation  and  craft,  sordidness  and 
cynicism.  He  made  few  gestures;  he  did  not 
move  from  the  position  he  had  first  taken.  He 
staked  all  upon  his  voice;  into  it  he  poured  all 
his  energy,  all  his  fire,  all  his  white-hot  passion 
for  right  and  justice,  all  his  scorn  of  the  base 
and  the  low. 


254  THE  COST 

"Head  above  heart,  when  head  is  right,"  he  had 
often  said.  "But  when  head  is  wrong",  then  heart 
above  head."  And  he  reached  for  hearts  that  day. 

Five  minutes,  and  delegates  and  spectators  were 
his  captives.  Fifteen  minutes,  and  he  was  riding 
a  storm  such  as  comes  only  when  the  fountains 
of  the  human  deeps  are  broken  up.  Thirty  min 
utes  and  he  was  riding  it  as  its  master,  was  guid 
ing  it  where  he  willed. 

In  vain  Larkin  sought  to  rally  delegates  round 
the  shamed  but  steadfast  nucleus  of  the  bribed 
and  the  bossed.  In  vain  his  orator  moved  an 
adjournment  until  "calmness  and  reason  shall  be 
restored."  The  answer  made  him  shrink  and  sink 
into  his  seat.  For  it  was  an  awful,  deafening 
roll  of  the  war-drums  of  that  exalted  passion 
which  Scarborough  had  roused. 

The  call  of  counties  began.  The  third  on  the 
list — Bartholomew — was  the  first  to  say  what  the 
people  longed  to  hear.  A  giant  farmer,  fiery  and 
freckled,  rose  and  in  a  voice  like  a  blast  from  a 
bass  horn  bellowed:  "Bartholomew  casts  her 
solid  vote  for  Hampden  Scarborough!" 

Pauline  had  thought  she  heard  that  multitude 
speak  before.  But  she  now  knew  she  had  heard 
hardly  more  than  its  awakening  whisper.  For, 


A  MAN  IN  HIS  MIGHT  255 

with  the  pronouncing  of  that  name,  the  tempest 
really  burst.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  obeying 
the  imperious  inward  command  which  made 
every  one  in  that  audience  and  most  of  the  dele 
gates  leap  up.  And  for  ten  long  minutes,  for  six 
hundred  cyclonic  seconds,  the  people  poured  out 
their  passionate  adoration.  At  first  Scarborough 
flung  out  his  arms,  and  all  could  see  that  he  was 
shouting  some  sort  of  protest.  But  they  would 
not  hear  him  now.  He  had  told  them  what  to>  do. 
He  must  let  them  say  how  to  do  it. 

Pauline  looked  out  at  those  flaming  thousands 
with  the  maddest  emotions  streaming  like  light 
ning  from  their  faces.  But  she  looked  without 
fear.  They — she — all  were  beside  themselves ;  but 
it  was  no  frenzy  for  blood  or  for  the  sordid  things. 
It  was  the  divine  madness  of  the  soldier  of  the 
right,  battling  for  the  cause,  in  utter  forgetfulness 
of  self  and  selfishness.  "Beautiful!  Beautiful!" 
she  murmured,  every  nerve  tingling.  "I  never 
knew  before  how  beautiful  human  beings  are !" 

Finally  the  roll-call  could  proceed.  Long  be 
fore  it  was  ended  the  necessary  votes  had  been  cast 
for  Scarborough,  and  Larkin  rose  to  move  that 
the  nomination  be  made  unanimous — Larkin, 
beaten  down  in  the  open,  was  not  the  man  to  die 


256  THE  COST 

there ;  he  hastened  to  cover  where  he  could  resume 
the  fight  in  the  manner  most  to  his  liking.  Again 
Scarborough  was  borne  to  the  platform;  again 
she  saw  him  standing  there — straight  and  mighty, 
but  deathly  pale,  and  sad — well  he  might  be  bowed 
by  the  responsibility  of  that  mandate,  given  by  the 
god-in-man,  but  to  be  executed  by  and  through 
plain  men.  A  few  broken,  hesitating  words,  and 
he  went  into  the  wings  and  left  the  theater,  ap 
plause  sweeping  and  swirling  after  him  like  a 
tidal  wave. 

Pauline,  coming  out  into  the  open,  looked  round 
her,  dazed.  Why,  it  was  the  same  work-a-day 
world  as  before,  with  its  actions  so  commonplace 
and  selfish,  with  only  its  impulses  fine  and  high.  If 
these  moments  of  exaltation  could  but  last,  could 
but  become  the  fixed  order  and  routine  of  life! 
If  high  ideal  and  courage  ruled,  instead  of  low 
calculation  and  fear!  She  sighed,  then  her  eyes 
shone. 

"At  least  I  have  seen !"  she  thought.  "At  least 
I  have  lived  one  of  those  moments  when  the 
dreams  come  true.  And  'human  being'  has  a  new 
meaning  for  me." 

Two  men,  just  behind  her  in  the  crowd,  were 


A  MAN  IN  HIS  MIGHT  257 

talking    of    Scarborough.        "A    demagogue!" 
sneered  one. 

"A  demi-god,"  retorted  the  other.  And  Pauline 
turned  suddenly  and  gave  him  a  Ippk  that  aston 
ished  and  dazzled  him. 


XXI. 

A   COYOTE  AT   BAY. 

Six  weeks  later,  on  the  morning  after  the  gen 
eral  election,  Dumont  awoke  bubbling  over  with 
good  humor — as  always,  when  the  world  went 
well  with  him  and  so  set  the  strong,  red  currents 
of  his  body  to  flowing  in  unobstructed  channels. 

He  had  not  gone  to  bed  the  previous  night 
until  he  had  definite  news  from  Indiana,  Illinois 
and  New  York,  the  three  states  in  which  his  in 
dustrial-political  stakes  were  heaviest.  They  had 
gone  as  he  wished,  as  he  and  his  friends  had  spent 
large  sums  of  money  to  assist  them  to  go.  And 
now  a  glance  at  the  morning  papers  confirmed  his 
midnight  bulletins.  Indiana,  where  he  had  made 
the  strongest  efforts  because  the  control  of  its  stat 
ute  book  was  vital  to  him,  had  gone  his  way  barely 
but,  apparently,  securely ;  Scarborough  was  beaten 
for  governor  by  twenty-five  hundred.  Presently 
he  had  Culver  in  to  begin  the  day's  business.  The 
first  paper  Culver  handed  him  was  a  cipher  tele 
gram  announcing  the  closing  of  an  agreement 
which  made  the  National  Woolens  Company  ab- 
258 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  259 

solute  in  the  Northwest;  the  second  item  in  Cul 
ver's  budget  was  also  a  cipher  telegram — -from 
Merriweather.  It  had  been  filed  at  four  o'clock — 
several  hours  later  than  the  newspaper  despatches. 
It  said  that  Scarborough's  friends  conceded  his 
defeat,  that  the  Legislature  was  safely  Dumont's 
way  in  both  houses.  Culver  always  sorted  out  to 
present  first  the  agreeable  part  of  the  morning's 
budget;  never  had  he  been  more  successful. 

At  the  office  Dumont  found  another  cipher  tele 
gram  from  Merriweather:  "Later  returns  show 
Scarborough  elected  by  a  narrow  majority.  But 
he  will  be  powerless  as  Legislature  and  all  other 
state  offices  are  with  us." 

Dumont  crushed  the  telegram  in  his  hand. 
"Powerless— hell !"  he  muttered.  "Does  he  think 
I'm  a  fool?"  He  had  spent  three  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  to  "protect"  his  monopoly  in  its 
home;  for  it  was  under  Indiana  laws,  as  inter 
preted  by  Dumont's  agents  in  public  office,  that 
the  main  or  holding  corporation  of  his  group  was 
organized.  And  he  knew  that,  in  spite  of  his 
judges  and  his  attorney-general  and  his  legisla 
tive  lobby  and  his  resourceful  lawyers  and  his 
subsidized  newspapers,  a  governor  of  Scar 
borough's  courage  and  sagacity  could  harass  him, 


260  THE  COST 

could  force  his  tools  in  public  office  to  activity 
against  him,  might  drive  him  from  the  state. 
Heretofore  he  had  felt,  and  had  been,  secure  in 
the  might  of  his  millions.  But  now —  He  had 
a  feeling  of  dread,  close  kin  to  fear,  as  he  measur 
ed  this  peril,  this  man  strong  with  a  strength 
against  which  money  and  intrigue  were  as  futile 
as  bow  and  arrow  against  rifle. 

He  opened  the  door  into  the  room  where  his 
twenty  personal  clerks  were  at  work.  They 
glanced  at  his  face,  winced,  bent  to  their  tasks. 
They  knew  that  expression :  it  meant  "J.  D.  will 
take  the  hide  off  every  one  who  goes  near  him 
to-day." 

"Tell  Mr.  Giddings  I  want  to  see  him,"  he 
snapped,  lifting  the  head  of  the  nearest  clerk  with 
a  glance  like  an  electric  shock. 

The  clerk  rose,  tiptoed  away  to  the  office  of  the 
first  vice-president  of  the  Woolens  Trust.  He 
came  tiptoeing  back  to  say  in  a  faint,  deprecating 
voice :  "Mr.  Giddings  isn't  down  yet,  sir." 

Dumont  rolled  out  a  volley  of  violent  language 
about  Giddings.  In  his  tantrums  he  had  no  more 
regard  for  the  dignity  of  his  chief  lieutenants, 
themselves  rich  men  and  middle-aged  or  old,  than 
he  had  for  his  office  boys.  To  the  Ineffable  Grand 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  261 

Turk  what  noteworthy  distinction  is  there  be 
tween  vizier  and  sandal-strapper? 

"Send  him  in — quick, — you,  as  soon  as  he 
comes,"  he  shouted  in  conclusion.  If  he  had  not 
paid  generously,  if  his  lieutenants  had  not  been 
coining  huge  dividends  out  of  his  brains  and 
commercial  audacity,  if  his  magnetic,  confidence- 
inspiring  personality  had  not  created  in  the  minds 
of  all  about  him  visions  of  golden  rivers  widen 
ing  into  golden  oceans,  he  would  have  been  de 
serted  and  execrated.  As  it  was,  his  service  was 
eagerly  sought;  and  his  servants  endured  its 
mental  and  moral  hardships  as  the  prospector  en 
dures  the  physical  cruelties  of  the  mountain  fast 
nesses. 

He  was  closing  his  private  door  when  the  door- 
boy  from  the  outermost  of  that  maze  of  handsome 
offices  came  up  to  him  with  a  card. 

"Not  here,"  he  growled,  and  shut  himself  in. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  sounds  of  an  angry 
tumult  in  the  clerks'  room  made  him  fling  his  door 
open.  "What  the — "  he  began,  his  heavy  face 
purple,  then  stopped  amazed. 

The  outside  doorkeeper,  the  watchman  and  sev 
eral  clerks  were  engaged  in  a  struggle  with  Fan- 


THE  COST 

shaw.  His  hat  was  off,  his  hair  wild,  his  neck* 
tie,  shirt  and  coat  awry. 

'There  you  are  now — I  knew  you  were  in,"  he 
shouted,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Dumont.  "Call 
these  curs  off,  Jack!" 

"Let  him  alone,"  snarled  Dumont. 

Fanshaw  was  released.  He  advanced  into  Du- 
mont's  office,  straightening  his  clothing  and  pant 
ing  with  exertion,  excitement  and  anger.  Dumont 
closed  the  door.  "Well,"  he  said  surlily.  "What 
d'  you  want?" 

"I'll  have  to  go  to  the  wall  at  half-past  ten  if 
you  don't  help  me  out,"  said  Fanshaw.  "The 
Montana  election  went  against  my  crowd — I'm  in 
the  copper  deal.  There's  a  slump,  but  the  stock's 
dead  sure  to  go  up  within  a  week." 

"In  trouble  again?"  sneered  Dumont.  "It's 
been  only  three  months  since  I  pulled  you 
through." 

"You  didn't  lose  anything  by  it,  did  you  ?"  re- 
iorted  Fanshaw — he  had  recovered  himself  and 
was  eying  Dumont  with  the  cool,  steady,  signifi 
cant  stare  of  one  rascal  at  another  whom  he  thinks 
he  has  in  his  power. 

Before  that  look  Dumont  flushed  an  angrier 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  263 

red.  "I  won't  do  it  again !"  and  he  brought  his 
fist  down  with  a  bang. 

"All  I  want  is  five  hundred  thousand  to  carry 
my  copper  for  a  week  at  the  outside.  If  I  get  it 
I'll  clear  a  million.  If  I  don't"— Fanshaw 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "I'll  be  cleaned  out." 
He  looked  with  narrowed,  shifting  eyes  at  Du- 
mont.  "My  wife  has  all  she's  got  in  this/'  he 
went  on,  "even  her  jewels." 

Dumont's  look  shot  straight  into  Fanshaw's. 
"Not  a  cent !"  he  said  with  vicious  emphasis.  "Not 
a  red!" 

Fanshaw  paled  and  pinched  in  his  lips.  "I'm 
a  desperate  man.  I'm  ruined.  Leonora — " 

Dumont  shook  his  head,  the  veins  swelling  in 
his  forehead  and  neck.  The  last  strand  of  his 
self-restraint  snapped.  "Leave  her  out  of  this! 
She  has  no  claim  on  me  now — and  you  never 
had." 

Fanshaw  stared  at  him,  then  sprang  to  his  feet, 
all  in  a  blaze.  "You  scoundrel!"  he  shouted, 
shaking  his  fist  under  Dumont's  nose. 

"If  you  don't  clear  out  instantly  I'll  have  you 
thrown  out,"  said  Dumont.  He  was  cool  and 
watchful  now. 

Fanshaw  folded  his  arms  and  looked  down  at 


864  THE  COST 

liim  with  the  dignified  fury  of  the  betrayed  and 
outraged.  "So!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  see  it  all!" 

Dumont  pressed  an  electric  button,  then  lean 
ed  back  in  his  revolving  chair  and  surveyed  Fan- 
shaw  tranquilly.  "Not  a  cent!"  he  repeated,  a 
cruel  smile  in  his  eyes  and  round  his  mouth.  The 
boy  came  and  Dumont  said  to  him:  "Send  the 
watchman." 

Fanshaw  drew  himself  up.  "I  shall  punish 
you,"  he  said.  "Your  wealth  will  not  save  you." 
And  he  stalked  past  the  gaping  office  boy. 

He  stood  in  front  of  the  Edison  Building,  look 
ing  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  street  as  he  pulled 
his  long,  narrow,  brown-gray  mustache.  Gloom 
was  in  his  face  and  hate  in  his  heart — not  hate  for 
Dumont  alone  but  hate  for  all  who  were  what 
he  longed  to  be,  all  rich  and  "successful"  men. 
And  the  towering  steel  and  stone  palaces  of  pros 
perity  sneered  down  on  him  with  crushing 
mockery. 

"Damn  them  all!"  he  muttered.  "The  cold- 
hearted  thieves !" 

From  his  entry  into  that  district  he  had  played 
a  gambling  game,  had  played  it  dishonestly  in  a 
small  way.  Again  and  again  he  had  sneakingly 
violated  Wall  Street's  code  of  morality — that  cur- 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  265 

ious  code  with  its  quaint,  unexpected  incorpora 
tions  of  parts  of  the  decalogue  and  its  quainter, 
though  not  so  unexpected,  infringements  thereof 
and  amendments  thereto.  Now  by  "pull,"  now 
by  trickery,  he  had  evaded  punishment.  But  ap 
parently  at  last  he  was  to  be  brought  to  bar, 
branded  and  banished. 

"Damn  them  all!"  he  repeated.  "They're  a 
pack  of  wolves.  They've  got  me  down  and  they're 
going  to  eat  me." 

He  blamed  Dumont  and  he  blamed  his  wife  for 
his  plight — and  there  was  some  justice  in  both 
accusations.  Twenty  years  before,  he  had  come 
down  to  "the  Street"  a  frank-looking  boy,  of  an 
old  and  distinguished  New  York  family  that  had 
become  too  aristocratic  for  business  and  had 
therefore  lost  its  hold  upon  its  once  great  fortune. 
He  was  neither  a  good  boy  nor  a  bad.  But  he  was 
weak,  and  had  the  extravagant  tastes  and  cynical 
morals  to  which  he  had  been  bred ;  and  his  intelli 
gent  brain  was  of  the  kind  that  goes  with  weak 
ness — shrewd  and  sly,  preferring  to  slink  along 
the  byways  of  craft  even  when  the  highway  of 
courage  lies  straight  and  easy.  But  he  had  physi 
cal  bravery  and  the  self-confidence  that  is  based 
upon  an  assured  social  position  in  a  community 


366  THE  COST 

where  social  position  is  worshiped;  so,  he  passed 
for  manly  and  proud  when  he  was  in  reality  nei 
ther.  Family  vanity  he  had;  personal  pride  he 
had  not. 

In  many  environments  his  weakness  would 
have  remained  hidden  even  from  himself,  and  he 
W7ould  have  lived  and  died  in  the  odor  and  com 
placence  of  respectability.  But  not  in  the  strain 
and  stress  of  Wall  Street.  There  he  had  natural 
ly  developed  not  into  a  lion,  not  even  into  a  wolf, 
but  into  a  coyote. 

Wall  Street  found  him  out  in  ten  years — about 
one  year  after  it  began  to  take  note  of  him  and 
his  skulking  ways  and  his  habit  of  prowling  in 
the  wake  of  the  pack.  Only  his  adroit  use  of  his 
family  connections  and  social  position  saved  him 
from  being  trampled  to  death  by  the  wolves  and 
eaten  by  his  brother  coyotes.  Thereafter  he  lived 
precariously,  but  on  the  whole  sumptuously,  upon 
carcasses  of  one  kind  and  another.  He  partici 
pated  in  "strike"  suits  against  big  corporations — 
he  would  set  on  a  pack  of  coyotes  to  dog  the  lions 
and  to  raise  discordant  howls  that  inopportunely 
centered  public  attention  upon  leonine,  lawless 
doings;  the  lions  would  pay  him  well  to  call  off 
the  pack.  He  assisted  sometimes  wolves  and 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  267 

sometimes  coyotes  in  flotations  of  worthless,  or 
almost  worthless,  stocks  and  bonds  from  gold 
and  mahogany  offices  and  upon  a  sea  of  glitter 
ing  prospectuses.  He  had  a  hand  in  all  manner 
of  small,  shady  transactions  of  lawful,  or  almost 
lawful,  swindling  that  were  tolerated  by  lions  and 
wolves,  because  at  bottom  there  is  a  feeling  of  fel 
lowship  among  creatures  of  prey  as  against  crea 
tures  preyed  upon. 

There  were  days  when  he  came  home  haggard 
and  blue  in  the  lips  to  tell  Leonora  that  he  must 
fly.  There  were  days  when  he  returned  from  the 
chase,  or  rather  from  the  skulk,  elated,  youthful, 
his  pockets  full  of  money  and  his  imagination 
afire  with  hopes  of  substantial  wealth.  But  his 
course  was  steadily  downward,  his  methods  stead 
ily  farther  and  farther  from  the  line  of  the  law. 
Dumont  came  just  in  time  to  save  him,  came  to 
build  him  up  from  the  most  shunned  of  coyotes 
into  a  deceptive  imitation  of  a  wolf  with  aspira 
tions  toward  the  lion  class. 

Leonora  knew  that  he  was  small,  but  she 
thought  all  men  small — she  had  supreme  contempt 
for  her  own  sex;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  men 
must  be  even  less  worthy  of  respect  since  they 
were  under  the  influence  of  women  and  lavished 


268  THE  COST 

time  and  money  on  them.  Thus  she  was  deceived 
into  cherishing  the  hope  that  her  husband,  small 
and  timid  though  he  was,  would  expand  into  a 
multi-millionaire  and  would  help  her  to  possess 
the  splendors  she  now  enjoyed  at  the  expense  of 
her  associates  whom  she  despised.  She  was 
always  thinking  how  far  more  impressive  than 
their  splendor  her  magnificence  would  be,  if  their 
money  were  added  to  her  brains  and  beauty. 

Dumont  had  helped  Fanshaw  as  much  as  he 
could.  He  immediately  detected  the  coyote.  He 
knew  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  lion  or  even  a 
wolf  out  of  one  who  was  both  small  and  crooked. 
He  used  him  only  in  minor  matters,  chiefly  in 
doing  queer,  dark  things  on  the  market  with  Na 
tional  Woolens,  things  he  indirectly  ordered  done 
but  refused  to  know  the  details  of  beyond  the  one 
important  detail — the  record  of  checks  for  the 
profits  in  his  bank  account.  For  such  matters 
Fanshaw  did  as  well  as  another.  But  as  Dumont 
became  less  of  a  wolf  and  more  of  a  lion,  less  of 
a  speculator  and  more  of  a  financier,  he  had  less 
and  less  work  of  the  kind  Fanshaw  could  do. 

But  Leonora,  unaware  of  her  husband's  worth- 
lessness  and  desperate  in  her  calamities,  sneered 
and  jeered  and  lashed  him  on — to  ruin.  The 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  269 

coyote  could  put  on  the  airs  of  a  lion  so  long  as 
the  lion  was  his  friend  and  protector;  when  he 
kept  on  in  kingly  ways  after  the  lion  had  cast  him 
off,  he  speedily  came  to  grief. 

As  he  stood  looking  helplessly  up  and  down 
Broad  Street  he  was  debating  what  move  to 
make.  There  were  about  even  measures  of  truth 
and  falsehood  in  his  statement  to  Dumont — he 
did  need  two  hundred  thousand  dollars;  and  he 
must  have  it  before  a  quarter  past  two  that  day 
or  go  into  a  bankruptcy  from  which  he  could  not 
hope  to  save  a  shred  of  reputation  or  to  secrete 
more  than  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

"To  the  New  York  Life  Building/'  he  finally 
said  to  the  driver  as  he  got  into  his  hansom.  Then 
to  himself :  "I'll  have  a  go  at  old  Herron." 

He  knew  that  Dumont  and  Herron  had  quar 
reled,  and  that  Herron  had  sold  out  of  the  Na 
tional  Woolens  Company.  But  he  did  not  know 
that  Herron  was  a  man  with  a  fixed  idea,  hatred 
of  Dumont,  and  a  fixed  purpose,  to  damage  him  at 
every  opportunity  that  offered  or  could  be  creat 
ed,  to  ruin  him  if  possible. 

When  the  National  Woolens  Company  was  ex 
panded  into  the  huge  conglomerate  it  now  was — 
a  hundred  millions  common,  a  hundred  millions 


270  THE  COST 

preferred,  and  twenty  millions  of  bonds — Herron 
had  devised  and  directed  the  intricate  and  highly 
perilous  course  among  the  rocks  of  law  and  pub 
lic  opinion  in  many  states  and  in  the  nation.  It 
was  a  splendid  exhibition  of  legal  piloting,  and 
he  was  bitterly  dissatisfied  with  the  modest  re 
ward  of  ten  millions  of  the  preferred  stock  which 
Dumont  apportioned  to  him.  He  felt  that  that 
would  have  been  about  his  just  share  in  the  new 
concern  merely  in  exchange  for  his  stock  in  the 
old.  When  he  found  Dumont  obdurate,  and  grew 
frank  and  spoke  such  words  as  "dishonor"  and 
"dishonesty"  and  got  into  the  first  syllable  of 
"swindling,"  Dumont  cut  him  off  with — 

"If  you  don't  like  it,  get  out !  I  can  hire  that 
sort  of  work  for  half  what  I've  paid  you.  You're 
swollen  with  vanity.  We  ought  to  have  a  young 
man  in  your  position,  anyhow." 

Herron  might  have  swallowed  the  insult  to  his 
pride  as  a  lawyer.  But  the  insult  to  his  pride  in 
his  youth!  He  was  fifty-seven  and  in  dress  and 
in  expression  was  stoutly  insisting  that  he  was 
still  a  young  man  whom  hard  work  had  made 
prematurely  gray  and  somewhat  wrinkled.  Du- 
mont's  insinuation  that  he  was  old  and  stale  set 
a  great  fire  of  hate  blazing;  he,  of  course,  told 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  271 

himself  and  others  that  his  wrath  was  stirred 
solely  because  his  sense  of  justice  had  been  out 
raged  by  the  "swindling." 

Fanshaw  entered  Herron's  office  wearing  the 
jaunty  air  of  arrogant  prosperity,  never  so  im 
portant  as  when  prosperity  has  fled.  But  Her 
ron's  shrewd,  experienced  eyes  penetrated  the 
sham.  He  had  intended  to  be  cold.  Scenting  a 
"hard-luck  yarn"  and  a  "touch"  he  lowered  his 
temperature  to  the  point  at  which  conversation  is 
ice-beset  and  confidences  are  frozen  tight. 

Fanshaw's  nerve  deserted  him.  "Herron," 
he  said,  dropping  his  prosperous  pose,  "I  want  to 
get  a  divorce  and  I  want  to  punish  Dumont." 

Herron's  narrow,  cold  face  lighted  up.  He 
knew  what  everybody  in  their  set  knew  of  Fan 
shaw's  domestic  affairs,  but  like  everybody  else  he 
had  pretended  not  to  know.  He  changed  his  ex 
pression  to  one  of  shock  and  indignation. 

"You  astound  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  in 
credible!" 

"He  told  me  himself  not  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Fanshaw.  "I  went  to  him  as  a  friend  to  ask  him 
to  help  me  out  of  a  hole.  And — "  He  rose 
and  theatrically  paced  the  floor. 

Herron  prided  himself  upon  his    acute    con- 


THE  COST 

science  and  his  nice  sense  of  honor.  He  felt  that 
here  was  a  chance  to  wreak  vengeance  upon  Du- 
mont — or  rather,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  to  bring 
Dumont  to  an  accounting  for  his  depravity.  Just 
as  Dumont  maintained  with  himself  a  character 
of  honesty  by  ignoring  all  the  dubious  acts  which 
his  agents  were  forced  to  do  in  carrying  out  his 
orders,  so  Herron  kept  peace  with  a  far  more 
sensitive  conscience  by  never  permitting  it  to  look 
in  upon  his  mind  or  out  through  his  eyes. 

"Frightful!  Frightful!"  he  exclaimed,  after  a 
long  pause  in  which  his  immured  and  blindfold 
conscience  decided  that  he  could  afford  to  support 
Fanshaw.  "I  knew  he  was  a  rascal  in  business — 
but  this!" 

There  was  genuine  emotion  in  his  voice  and  in 
his  mind.  He  was  strict  to  puritanic  primness  in 
his  ideals  of  feminine  morality;  nor  had  he  been 
relaxed  by  having  a  handsome  wife,  looking 
scarce  a  day  over  thirty  behind  her  veil  or  in  arti 
ficial  light,  and  fond  of  gathering  about  her  young 
men  who  treated  him  as  if  he  were  old  and  "didn't 
count." 

"You  are  certain,  Fanshaw?" 

"I  tell  you,  he  hinted  it  himself,"  replied  Fan 
shaw.  "And  instantly  my  eyes  were  opened  to 


A  COYOTE  AT  BAY  273 

scores  of  damning  confirmations."  He  struck 
his  forehead  with  his  open  hand.  "How  blind 
I've  been!"  he  exclaimed. 

Herron  shook  his  head  sympathetically  and 
hastened  on  to  business. 

"We  can't  handle  your  case,"  he  said.  "But 
Best  and  Sharpless  on  the  floor  above,  are  reliable. 
And  I'll  be  glad  to  help  you  with  advice.  I  feel 
that  this  is  the  beginning  of  Dumont's  end.  I 
knew  such  insolent  wickedness  could  not  have  a 
long  course." 

Fanshaw  drew  Herron  on  to  tell  the  story  of 
his  wrongs — the  "swindling."  Before  it  was 
ended  Fanshaw  saw  that  he  had  found  a  man  who 
hated  Dumont  malignantly  and  was  thirsting  for 
vengeance.  This  encouraged  him  to  unfold  his 
financial  difficulties.  Herron  listened  sympatheti 
cally,  asked  ingeniously  illuminating  questions, 
and  in  the  end  agreed  to  tide  him  over.  He  had 
assured  himself  that  Fanshaw  had  simply  under 
taken  too  large  an  enterprise  ;  the  advance  would 
be  well  secured ;  he  would  make  the  loan  in  such 
a  way  that  he  would  get  a  sure  profit,  and  would 
also  bind  Fanshaw  firmly  to  him  without  binding 
himself  to  Fanshaw.  Besides — "  It  wouldn't  do 
for  him  to  go  to  the  wall  just  now." 


274:  THE  COST 

Arm  in  arm  they  went  up  to  Best  and  Sharp- 
less'  to  take  the  first  steps  in  the  suit.  Together 
they  went  dowrn-town  to  relieve  Fanshaw  of  the 
pressure  of  the  too  heavy  burden  of  copper  stocks  ; 
then  up  to  their  club  where  he  assisted  Fanshaw 
in  composing  the  breaking-off  letter  to  Leonora. 


XXII. 

STORMS  IN  THE  WEST. 

While  the  Fanshaw-Herron  storm  was  slowly 
gathering  in  Dumont's  eastern  horizon,  two  others 
equally  black  were  lifting  in  the  west. 

In  the  two  months  between  Scarborough's  elec 
tion  and  his  inauguration,  the  great  monopolies 
thriving  under  the  protection  of  the  state's  cor 
rupted  statute-book  and  corrupted  officials  fol 
lowed  the  lead  of  their  leader,  Dumont's  National 
Woolens  Company,  in  making  sweeping  but 
stealthy  changes  in  their  prices,  wages,  methods 
and  even  in  their  legal  status.  They  hoped  thus 
to  enable  their  Legislature  plausibly  to  resist  Scar 
borough's  demand  for  a  revision  of  the  laws — 
why  revise  when  the  cry  of  monopoly  had  been 
shown  to  be  a  false  issue  raised  by  a  demagogue 
to  discredit  the  tried  leaders  of  the  party  and  to 
aggrandize  himself?  And,  when  Scarborough 
had  been  thoroughly  "exposed,"  business  could  be 
resumed  gradually. 

But  Scarborough  had  the  better  brain,  and  had 
character  as  well.  He  easily  upset  their  pro- 

275 


276  THE  COST 

gram  and  pressed  their  Legislature  so  hard 
that  it  was  kept  in  line  only  by  pouring  out 
money  like  water.  This  became  a  public  scandal 
which  made  him  stronger  than  ever  and 
also  made  it  seem  difficult  or  impossible  for  the 
monopolies  to  get  a  corruptible  Legislature  at  the 
next  election.  At  last  the  people  had  in  their  serv 
ice  a  lawyer  equal  in  ability  to  the  best  the  monop 
olies  could  buy,  and  one  who  understood  human 
nature  and  political  machinery  to  boot. 

Dumont  began  to  respect  Scarborough  pro 
foundly — not  for  his  character,  which  made  him 
impregnable  with  the  people,  but  for  his  intellect, 
which  showed  him  how  to  convince  the  people  of 
his  character  and  to  keep  them  convinced.  When 
Merriweather  came  on  "to  take  his  beating" 
from  his  employer  he  said  among  other  things 
deprecatory:  "Scarborough's  a  dreamer.  His 
head's  among  the  clouds."  Dumont  retorted: 
"Yes,  but  his  feet  are  on  the  ground — too  damned 
firmly  to  suit  me."  And  after  a  moment's 
thought,  he  added:  "What  a  shame  for  such  a 
brain  to  go  to  waste!  Why,  he  could  make  mil 
lions." 

He  felt  that  Gladys  was  probably  his  best  re 
maining  card.  She  had  been  in  Indianapolis  vis* 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  277 

iting  the  whole  of  February,  Scarborough's  sec 
ond  month  as  governor,  and  had  gone  on  to  her 
brother  in  New  York  with  a  glowing  report  of 
her  progress  with  Scarborough's  sister  Arabella, 
now  a  widow  and  at  her  own  invitation  living  with 
him  in  Indianapolis  to  relieve  him  of  the  social 
duties  of  his  office.  She  was  a  dozen  years  more 
the  Arabella  who  had  roused  her  father's  wrath 
by  her  plans  for  educating  her  brother  "like  a 
gentleman";  and  Olivia  and  Fred  were  irritated 
and  even  alarmed  by  her  anything  but  helpful  pe 
culiarities — though  Scarborough  seemed  cheerful 
and  indifferent  enough  about  them. 

It  was  a  temperamental  impossibility  for  Du- 
mont  to  believe  that  Scarborough  could  really  be 
sincere  in  a  course  which  was  obviously  un 
profitable.  Therefore  he  attached  even  more  im 
portance  to  Arabella's  cordiality  than  did  Gladys 
herself.  And,  when  the  Legislature  adjourned 
and  Scarborough  returned  to  Saint  X  for  a  brief 
stay,  Dumont  sent  Gladys  post-haste  back  to  the 
Eyrie — that  is,  she  instantly  and  eagerly  acted 
upon  his  hint. 

A  few  evenings  after  her  return,  she  and 
Pauline  were  on  the  south  veranda  alone  in  the 


278  THE  COST 

starlight.  She  was  in  low  spirits  and  presently 
began  to  rail  against  her  lot. 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  said  Pauline.  "You've 
no  right  to  complain.  You  have  everything — 
and  you're — free!" 

That  word  "free"  was  often  on  Pauline's  lips 
in  those  days.  And  a  close  observer  might  have 
been  struck  by  the  tone  in  which  she  uttered 
it.  Not  the  careless  tone  of  those  who  have 
never  had  or  have  never  lost  freedom,  but  the 
lingering,  longing  tone  of  those  who  have  had 
it,  and  have  learned  to  value  it  through  long 
years  without  it. 

"Yes — everything!"  replied  Gladys,  bitterly. 
"Everything  except  the  one  thing  I  want." 

Pauline  did  not  help  her,  but  she  was  at  the 
stage  of  suppressed  feeling  where  desire  to  confide 
is  stronger  than  pride. 

"The  one  thing  I  want,"  she  repeated.  "Pau 
line,  I  used  to  think  I'd  never  care  much  for 
any  man,  except  to  like  it  for  him  to  like  me. 
Men  have  always  been  a  sort  of  amusement — 
and  the  oftener  the  man  changed,  the  better 
the  fun.  I've  known  for  several  years  that  I 
simply  must  marry,  but  I've  refused  to  face  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  I  was  fated  to  wander  the  earth, 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  279 

homeless,  begging  from  door  to  door  for  leave 
to  come  in  and  rest  a  while." 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  Gladys,  that  this  is 
your  home." 

"Of  course — in  a  sense.  It's  as  much  my 
home  as  another  woman's  house  could  be.  But" 
— with  a  little  sob — "I've  seen  my  mate  and  I 
want  to  begin  my  nest." 

They  were  side  by  side  on  a  wide,  wicker  sofa. 
Pauline  made  an  impulsive  move  to  put  her 
arm  round  Gladys,  then  drew  away  and  clasped 
her  hands  tightly  in  her  lap. 

Gladys  was  crying,  sobbing,  brokenly  apolo 
gizing  for  it — "I'm  a  little  idiot — but  I  can't 
help  it — I  haven't  any  pride  left — a  woman  never 
does  have,  really,  when  she's  in  love— oh, 
Pauline,  do  you  think  he  cares  at  all  for  me?" 
And  after  a  pause  she  went  on,  too  absorbed 
in  herself  to  observe  Pauline  or  to  wonder  at 
her  silence :  "Sometimes  I  think  he  does.  Again 
I  fear  that — that  he  doesn't.  And  lately — why 
doesn't  he  come  here  any  more?" 

"You  know  how  busy  he  is,"  said  Pauline,  in 
a  voice  so  strained  that  Gladys  ought  to  have 
noticed  it. 

"But  it  isn't  that— I'm  sure  it  isn't.     No,  it 


280  THE  COST 

has  something  to  do  with  me.  It  means  either 
that  he  doesn't  care  for  me  or  that — that  he 
does  care  and  is  fighting  against  it.  Oh,  I  don't 
know  what  to  think."  Then,  after  a  pause: 
"How  I  hate  being  a  woman !  If  I  were  a  man 
I  could  find  out  the  truth — settle  it  one  way 
or  the  other.  But  I  must  sit  dumb  and  wait, 
and  wait,  and  wait!  You  don't  know  how  I 
love  him,"  she  said  brokenly,  burying  her  face 
in  the  ends  of  the  soft  white  shawl  that  was 
flung  about  her  bare  shoulders.  "I  can't  help  it 
— he's  the  best — he  makes  all  the  others  look 
and  talk  like  cheap  imitations.  He's  the  best, 
and  a  woman  can't  help  wanting  the  best." 

Pauline  rose  and  leaned  against  the  railing — 
she  could  evade  the  truth  no  longer.  Gladys 
was  in  love  with  Scarborough,  was  at  last  caught 
in  her  own  toils,  would  go  on  entangling  her 
self  deeper  and  deeper,  abandoning  herself  more 
and  more  to  a  hopeless  love,  unless — 

"What  would  you  do,  Pauline?"  pleaded 
Gladys.  "There  must  be  some  reason  why  he 
doesn't  speak.  It  isn't  fair  to  me — it  isn't  fair! 
I  could  stand  anything — even  giving  him  up — 
better  than  this  uncertainty.  It's — it's  breaking 
my  heart- — I  who  thought  I  didn't  have  a  heart." 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  281 

"No,  it  isn't  fair,"  said  Pauline,  to  herself 
rather  than  to  Gladys. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  sympathize  with  me," 
Gladys  went  on.  "I  know  you  don't  like  him. 
I've  noticed  how  strained  and  distant  you  are 
toward  each  other.  And  you  seem  to  avoid 
each  other.  And  he'll  never  talk  of  you  to  me. 
Did  you  have  some  sort  of  misunderstanding 
at  college?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline,  slowly.  "A — a  misun 
derstanding." 

"And  you  both  remember  it,  after  all  these 
years?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pauline. 

"How  relentless  you  are,"  said  Gladys,  "and 
how  tenacious !"  But  she  was  too  intent  upon  her 
own  affairs  to  pursue  a  subject  which  seemed  to 
lead  away  from  them.  Presently  she  rose. 

"I'll  be  ashamed  of  having  confessed  when 
I  see  you  in  daylight.  But  I  don't  care.  I 
shan't  be  sorry.  I  feel  a  little  better.  After 
all,  why  should  I  be  ashamed  of  any  one  know 
ing  I  care  for  him?"  And  she  sighed, 
laughed,  went  into  the  house,  whistling  softly 
— sad,  depressed,  but  hopeful,  feeling  deep  down 


THE  COST 

that  she  surely  must  win  where  she  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  lose. 

Pauline  looked  after  her.  "No,  it  isn't  fair," 
she  repeated.  She  stayed  on  the  veranda,  walk 
ing  slowly  to  and  fro — not  to  make  up  her  mind, 
for  she  had  done  that  while  Gladys  was  confess 
ing,  but  to  decide  how  she  could  best  accomplish 
what  she  saw  she  must  now  no  longer  delay. 
It  was  not  until  two  hours  later  that  she  went 
up  to  bed. 

When  Gladys  came  down  at  nine  the  next 
morning  Pauline  had  just  gone  out — "I  think, 
Miss  Gladys,  she  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to 
her  father's/'  said  the  butler. 

Gladys  set  out  alone.  Instead  of  keeping  to 
the  paths  and  the  woods  along  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  she  descended  to  the  valley  and  the  river 
road.  She  walked  rapidly,  her  face  glowing,  her 
eyes  sparkling — she  was  quick  to  respond  to 
impressions  through  the  senses,  and  to-day  she 
felt  so  well  physically  that  it  reacted  upon  her 
mind  and  forced  her  spirits  up.  At  the  turn 
beyond  Deer  Creek  bridge  she  met  Scarborough 
suddenly.  He,  too,  was  afoot  and  alone,  and 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  283 

fiis  greeting  was  interpreted  to  her  hopes  by 
her  spirits. 

"May  I  turn  and  walk  with  you?"  he  asked. 
"I'm  finding  myself  disagreeable  company  to 
day." 

"You  did  look  dull,"  she  said,  as  they  set  out 
together,  "dull  as  a  love-sick  German.  But  I 
supposed  it  was  your  executive  pose." 

"I  was  thinking  that  I'll  be  old  before  I  know 
it."  His  old-young  face  was  shadowed  for  an 
instant.  "Old — that's  an  unpleasant  thought, 
isn't  it?" 

"Unpleasant  for  a  man,"  said  Gladys,  with  a 
laugh,  light  as  youth's  dread  of  age.  "For  a 
woman,  ghastly!  Old  and  alone — either  one's 
dreadful  enough.  But — the  two  together!  I 
often  think  of  them.  Don't  laugh  at  me — really 
I  do.  Don't  you?" 

"If  you  keep  to  that,  our  walk'll  be  a  dismal 
failure.  It's  a  road  I  never  take — if  I  can  help 
it." 

"You  don't  look  as  though  you  were  ever 
gloomy."  Gladys  glanced  up  at  him  admiringly. 
"I  should  have  said  you  were  one  person  the 
blue  devils  wouldn't  dare  attack." 


284  THE  COST 

"Yes,  but  they  do.  And  sometimes  they 
throw  me." 

"And  trample  you?" 

"And  trample  me,"  he  answered  absently. 

"That's  because  you're  alone  too  much,"  she 
said  with  a  look  of  tactful  sympathy. 

"Precisely,"  he  replied.  "But  how  am  I  to 
prevent  that?" 

"Marry,  of  course,"  she  retorted,  smiling  gaily 
up  at  him,  letting  her  heart  just  peep  from  her 
eyes. 

"Thank  you!  And  it  sounds  so  easy!  May 
I  ask  why  you've  refused  to  take  your  own 
medicine — you  who  say  you  are  so  often  blue?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I've  always 
suspected  the  men  who  asked  me.  They  were 
— "  She  did  not  finish  what  she  feared  might 
be  an  unwise,  repelling  remark  in  the  circum 
stances. 

"They  were  after  your  money,"  he  finished 
for  her. 

She  nodded.  "They  were  Europeans,"  she 
explained.  "Europeans  want  money  when  they 
marry." 

"That's  another  of  the  curses  of  riches,"  he 
said  judicially.  "And  if  you  marry  a  rich  man 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  285 

over  here,  you  may  be  pretty  sure  he'll  marry 
you  for  your  money.  I've  observed  that  rich  men 
attach  an  exaggerated  importance  to  money, 
always." 

"I'd  prefer  to  marry  a  poor  man/'  she  has 
tened  to  answer,  her  heart  beating  faster — cer 
tainly  his  warning  against  rich  suitors  must  have 
been  designed  to  help  his  own  cause  with  her. 

"Yes,  that  might  be  better,"  he  agreed.  "But 
you  would  have  to  be  careful  after  you  were 
married  or  he  might  fancy  you  were  using  your 
money  to  tyrannize  over  him.  I've  noticed  that 
the  poor  husbands  of  rich  women  are  supersen- 
sitive — often  for  cause." 

"Oh,  I'd  give  it  all  to  him.  He  could  do 
what  he  pleased  with  it.  I'd  not  care  so  long 
as  we  were  happy." 

Scarborough  liked  the  spirit  of  this,  liked  her 
look  as  she  said  it. 

"That's  very  generous — very  like  you,"  he 
replied  warmly.  "But  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
at  all  wise.  You'd  be  in  a  dangerous  position. 
You  might  spoil  him — great  wealth  is  a  great 
danger,  and  when  it's  suddenly  acquired,  and  so 
easily —  No,  you'd  better  put  your  wealth 
aside  and  only  use  so  much  of  it  as  will  make 


286  THE  COST 

your  income  equal  to  his — if  you  can  stand  liv 
ing  economically." 

"I  could  stand  anything  with  or  from  any  one 
I  cared  for."  Gladys  was  eager  for  the  conversa 
tion  to  turn  from  the  general  to  the  particular. 
She  went  on,  forcing  her  voice  to  hide  her  inter 
est:  "And  you,  why  don't  you  cure  your 
blues?" 

"Oh,  I  shall,"  he  replied  carelessly.  "But  not 
with  your  medicine.  Every  one  ta  his  own  pre 
scription." 

"And  what's  yours  for  yourself?"  said  Gladys, 
feeling  tired  and  nervous  from  the  strain  of  this 
delayed  happiness. 

"Mine?"     He  laughed.     "My  dreams." 

"You  are  a  strange  combination,  aren't  you? 
In  one  way  you're  so  very  practical — with  your 
politics  and  all  that.  And  in  another  way — I 
suspect  you  of  being  sentimental — almost 
romantic." 

"You've  plucked  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery. 
My  real  name  is  Don  Quixote  de  Saint  X." 

"And  has  your  Dulcinea  red  hands  and  a  flat 
nose  and  freckles  like  the  lady  of  Toboso?" 
Gladys'  hands  were  white,  her  nose  notably  fine, 
her  skin  transparently  clear. 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  287 

"Being  Don  Quixote,  I  don't  know  it  if  she 
has." 

"And  you  prefer  to  worship  afar,  and  to  send 
her  news  of  your  triumphs  instead  of  going  to 
her  yourself?" 

"I  dare  not  go."  He  was  looking  away,  far 
away.  "There  are  wicked  enchanters.  I'm  pow 
erless.  She  alone  can  break  their  spells." 

They  walked  in  silence,  her  heart  beating  so 
loudly  that  she  thought  he  must  be  hearing  it, 
must  be  hearing  what  it  was  saying.  Yes — 
she  must  break  the  spells.  But  how — but  how? 
What  must  she  say  to  make  him  see?  Did  he 
expect  her  to  ask  him  to  marry  her?  She  had 
heard  that  rich  women  often  were  forced  to 
make  this  concession  to  the  pride  of  the  men 
they  wished  to  marry.  On  the  other  hand,  was 
there  ever  a  man  less  likely  than  Scarborough 
to  let  any  obstacle  stand  between  him  and  what 
he  wanted? 

The  first  huge  drops  of  a  summer  rain  pat 
tered  in  big,  round  stains,  brown  upon  the  white 
of  the  road.  He  glanced  up — a  cloud  was  roll 
ing  from  beyond  the  cliffs,  was  swiftly  curtaining 
the  blue. 

"Come,"  he  commanded,  and  they  darted  into 


288  THE  COST 

the  underbrush,  he  guiding  her  by  her  arm.  A 
short  dash  among  the  trees  and  bushes  and  they 
were  at  the  base  of  the  bluff,  were  shielded  by 
a  shelf  of  rock. 

"It'll  be  over  soon/'  he  assured  her.  "But 
you  must  stand  close  or  you'll  be  drenched." 

A  clap  of  thunder  deafened  them  as  a  flame 
and  a  force  enswathed  the  sycamore  tree  a  few 
yards  away,  blowing  off  its  bark,  scattering  its 
branches,  making  it  all  in  an  instant  a  black 
ened  and  blasted  wreck.  Gladys  gave  a  low 
scream  of  terror,  fell  against  him,  hid  her  face 
in  his  shoulder.  She  was  trembling  violently. 
He  put  his  arm  round  her — if  he  had  not  sup 
ported  her  she  would  have  fallen.  She  leaned 
against  him,  clinging  to-  him,  so  that  he  felt 
the  beat  of  her  heart,  the  swell  and  fall  of  her 
bosom,  felt  the  rush  of  her  young  blood  through 
her  veins,  felt  the  thrill  from  her  smooth,  deli 
cate,  olive  skin.  And  he,  too,  was  trembling — 
shaken  in  all  his  nerves. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said — in  his  voice  he 
unconsciously  betrayed  the  impulse  that  was 
fighting  for  possession  of  him. 

She  drew  herself  closer  to  him  with  a  long, 
tremulous  sigh. 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  289 

"I'm  a  coward,"  she  murmured.  "I'm  shak 
ing  so  that  I  can't  stand."  She  tried  to  draw 
herself  away — or  did  she  only  make  pretense 
to  him  and  to  herself  that  she  was  trying? — 
then  relaxed  again  into  his  arms. 

The  thunder  cracked  and  crashed;  the  light 
nings  leaped  in  streaks  and  in  sheets;  the  waters 
gushed  from  the  torn  clouds  and  obscured  the 
light  like  a  heavy  veil.  She  looked  up  at  him 
in  the  dimness — she,  too,  was  drunk  with  the 
delirium  of  the  storms  raging  without  and  within 
them.  His  brain  swam  giddily.  The  points  of 
gold  in  her  dark  eyes  were  drawing  him  like 
so  many  powerful  magnets.  Their  lips  met  and 
he  caught  her  up  in  his  arms.  And  for  a  mo 
ment  all  the  fire  of  his  intensely  masculine  na 
ture,  so  long  repressed,  raged  over  her  lips,  her 
eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheeks,  her  chin. 

A  moment  she  lay,  happy  as  a  petrel,  beaten 
by  a  tempest;  a  moment  her  thirsty  heart  drank 
in  the  ecstasy  of  the  lightnings  through  her 
lips  and  skin  and  hair. 

She  opened  her  eyes  to  find  out  why  there 
was  a  sudden  calm.  She  saw  him  staring  with 
set,  white  face  through  the  rain-veil.  His  arms 
still  held  her,  but  where  they  had  been  like  the 


290  THE  COST 

clasp  of  life  itself,  they  were  now  dead  as  the 
arms  of  a  statue.  A  feeling  of  cold  chilled  her 
skin,  trickled  icily  in  and  in.  She  released  her 
self — he  did  not  oppose  her. 

"It  seems  to  me  I'll  never  be  able  to  look  you 
— or  myself — in  the  face  again/'  he  said  at  last. 
"I  didn't  know  it  was  in  me  to — to  take  advan 
tage  of  a  woman's  helplessness." 

"I  wanted  you  to  do  what  you  did,"  she  said 
simply. 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  are  generous,"  he 
answered.  "But  I  deserve  nothing  but  your 
contempt." 

"I  wanted  you  to  do  it,"  she  repeated.  She 
was  under  the  spell  of  her  love  and  of  his  touch. 
She  was  clutching  to  save  what  she  could,  was 
desperately  hoping  it  might  not  be  so  little  as 
she  feared.  "I  had  the — the  same  impulse  that 
you  had."  She  looked  at  him  timidly,  with  a 
pleading  smile.  "And  please  don't  say  you're 
sorry  you  did  it,  even  if  you  feel  so.  You'll 
think  me  very  bold — I  know  it  isn't  proper  for 
young  women  to  make  such  admissions.  But 
— don't  reproach  yourself — please !" 

If  she  could  have  looked  into  his  mind  as 
he  stood  there,  crushed  and  degraded  in  his 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  291 

own  eyes,  she  would  have  been  a  little  consoled 
— for,  in  defiance  of  his  self-scorn  and  self-hate, 
his  nerves  were  tingling  with  the  memory  of  that 
delirium,  and  his  brain  was  throbbing  with  the 
-surge  of  impulses  long  dormant,  now  imperious. 
JBut  she  was  not  even  looking  toward  him — 
for,  through  her  sense  of  shame,  of  wounded 
pride,  her  love  was  clamoring  to  her  to  cry 
out:  "Take  me  in  your  arms  again!  I  care 
not  on  what  terms,  only  take  me  and  hold  me 
and  kiss  me." 

The  rain  presently  ceased  as  abruptly  as  it 
had  begun  and  they  returned  under  the  drip 
ping  leaves  to  the  highroad.  She  glanced 
anxiously  at  him  as  they  walked  toward  the 
town,  but  he  did  not  speak.  She  saw  that  if 
the  silence  was  to  be  broken,  she  must  break  it. 

"What  can  I  say  to  convince  you?"  she  asked, 
as  if  not  he  but  she  were  the  offender. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Won't  you  look  at  me,  please?" 

He  looked,  the  color  mounting  in  his  cheeks, 
his  eyes  unsteady. 

"Now,  tell  me  you'll  not  make  me  suffer  be 
cause  you  fancy  you've  wronged  me.  Isn't  it 


292  THE  COST 

ungallant  of  you  to  act  this  way  after  I've 
humiliated  myself  to  confess  I  didn't  mind?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  humbly,  and  looked 
away. 

"You  won't  have  it  that  I  was  in  the  least 
responsible?"  She  was  teasing  him  now — he 
was  plainly  unaware  of  the  meaning  of  her  yield 
ing.  "He's  so  modest,"  she  thought,  and  went 
on:  "You  won't  permit  me  to  flatter  myself  I 
was  a  temptation  too  strong  even  for  your  iron 
heart,  Don  Quixote?" 

He  flushed  scarlet,  and  the  suspicion,  the  real 
ization  of  the  truth  set  her  eyes  to  flashing. 

"It's  before  another  woman  he's  abasing  him 
self,"  she  thought,  "not  before  me.  He  isn't 
even  thinking  of  me."  When  she  spoke  her 
tone  was  cold  and  sneering:  "I  hope  she  will 
forgive  you.  She  certainly  would  if  she  could 
know  what  a  paladin  you  are." 

He  winced,  but  did  not  answer.  At  the  road 
up  the  bluffs  she  paused  and  there  was  an  em 
barrassed  silence.  Then  he  poured  out  abrupt 
sentences : 

"It  was  doubly  base.  I  betrayed  your  friendly 
trust,  I  was  false  to  her.  Don't  misunderstand 
* — she's  nothing  to  me.  She's  nothing  to  me, 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  293 

yet  everything.  I  began  really  to  live  when  I 
began  to  love  her.  And — every  one  must  have 
a — a  pole-star.  And  she's  mine — the  star  I  sail 
by,  and  always  must.  And — "  He  halted 
altogether,  then  blundered  on:  "I  shall  not 
forgive  myself.  But  you — be  merciful — forgive 
me— forget  it!" 

"I  shall  do  neither,"  she  replied  curtly,  jeal 
ousy  and  vanity  stamping  down  the  generous 
impulse  that  rose  in  response  to  his  appeal.  And 
she  went  up  her  road.  A  few  yards  and  she 
paused,  hoping  to  hear  him  coming  after  her. 
A  few  yards  more  and  she  sat  down  on  a  big 
boulder  by  the  wayside.  Until  now  all  the  wishes 
of  her  life  had  been  more  or  less  material,  had 
been  wishes  which  her  wealth  or  the  position 
her  wealth  gave  had  enabled  her  instantly  to 
gratify.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  arms  and 
sobbed  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  in  a  cy 
clone  of  anger,  and  jealousy,  and  shame,  and 
love,  and  despair. 

"I  hate  him !"  she  exclaimed  between  clenched 
teeth.  "I  hate  him,  but —  if  he  came  and  wanted 
me,  oh,  how  I  would  love  him !" 

Meanwhile  Pauline  was  at  her  father's. 


294  THE  COST 

"He  isn't  down  yet,"  said  her  mother.  "You 
know,  he  doesn't  finish  dressing  nowadays  until 
he  has  read  the  papers  and  his  mail.  Then  he 
walks  in  the  garden." 

"I'll  go  there,"  said  Pauline.  "Won't  you 
bring  him  when  he's  ready?" 

She  never  entered  the  garden  that  the  ghosts 
of  her  childhood — how  far,  far  it  seemed! — did 
not  join  her,  brushing  against  her,  or  rustling 
in  tree  and  bush  and  leafy  trellis.  She  paused 
at  the  end  of  the  long  arbor  and  sat  on  the 
rustic  bench  there.  A  few  feet  away  was  the  bed 
of  lilies-of-the-valley.  Every  spring  of  her  child 
hood  she  used  to  run  from  the  house  on  the 
first  warm  morning  and  hurry  to  it;  and  if  her 
glance  raised  her  hopes  she  would  kneel  upon 
the  young  grass  and  lower  her  head  until  her 
long  golden  hair  touched  the  black  ground;  and 
the  soil  that  had  been  hard  and  cold  all  winter 
would  be  cracked  open  this  way  and  that;  and 
from  the  cracks  would  issue  an  odor — the  odor 
of  life.  And  as  she  would  peer  into  each  crack 
in  turn  she  would  see,  down,  away  down,  the 
pale  tip  of  what  she  knew  to  be  an  up-shooting 
slender  shaft.  And  her  heart  would  thrill  with 
joy,  for  she  knew  that  the  shafts  would  presently 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  295 

rise  green  above  the  black  earth,  would  unfold, 
would  blossom,  would  bloom,  would  fling  from 
tremulous  bells  a  perfumed  proclamation  of  the 
arrival  of  spring. 

As  she  sat  waiting,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
through  the  black  earth  of  her  life  she  could 
see  and  feel  the  backward  heralds  of  her  spring 
— "after  the  long  winter,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  glanced  up — her  father  coming  toward 
her.  He  was  alone,  was  holding  a  folded  let 
ter  uncertainly  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at  her, 
his  eyes  full  of  pity  and  grief.  "Pauline,"  he 
began,  "has  everything  been — been  well — of  late 
between  you  and — your  husband?" 

She  started.  "No,  father,"  she  replied.  Then, 
looking  at  him  with  clear  directness :  "I've  not 
been  showing  you  and  mother  the  truth  about 
John  and  me — not  for  a  long  time." 

She  saw  that  her  answer  relieved  him.  He 
hesitated,  held  out  the  letter. 

"The  best  way  is  for  you  to  read  it,"  he  said. 
It  was  a  letter  to  him  from  Fanshaw.  He  was 
writing,  he  explained,  because  the  discharge  of 
a  painful  duty  to  himself  would  compel  him  "to 
give  pain  to  your  daughter  whom  I  esteem 
highly,"  and  he  thought  it  only  right  "to  pre- 


296  THE  COST 

pare  her  and  her  family  for  what  was  coming,  in 
order  that  they  might  be  ready  to  take  the  action 
that  would  suggest  itself."  And  he  went  on  to 
relate  his  domestic  troubles  and  his  impending 
suit. 

"Poor  Leonora!"  murmured  Pauline,  as  she 
finished  and  sat  thinking  of  all  that  Fanshaw's 
letter  involved. 

"Is  it  true,  Polly?"  asked  her  father. 

She  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  How  easy 
this  letter  had  made  all  that  she  had  been 
dreading!  "Yes — it's  true,"  she  replied.  "I've 
known  about — about  it  ever  since  the  time  I 
came  back  from  the  East  and  didn't  return." 

The  habitual  pallor  of  her  father's  face 
changed  to  gray. 

"I  left  him,  father."  She  lifted  her  head,  im 
patient  of  her  stammering.  A  bright  flush  was 
in  her  face  as  she  went  on  rapidly:  "And  t 
came  to-day  to  tell  you  the  whole  story — to  be 
truthful  and  honest  again.  I'm  sick  of  deception 
and  evasion.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer— I 
mustn't.  I — you  don't  know  how  I've  shrunk 
from  wounding  mother  and  you.  But  I've  no 
choice  now.  Father,  I  must  be  free — free !" 

"And    you    shall    be,"    replied    her    father. 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  297, 

"He  shall  not  wreck  your  life  and  Gardiner's." 

Pauline  stared  at  him.  "Father!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her 
gently  to  him. 

"I  know  the  idea  is  repellent,"  he  said,  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  persuade  a  child.  "But  it's 
right,  Pauline.  There  are  cases  in  which  not  to 
divorce  would  be  a  sin.  I  hope  my  daughter 
sees  that  this  is  one." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  confusedly.  "I 
thought  you  and  mother  believed  divorce  was 
dreadful — no  matter  what  might  happen." 

"We  did,  Pauline.  But  we— that  is,  I—had 
never  had  it  brought  home.  A  hint  of  this  story 
was  published  just  after  you  came  last  year.  I 
thought  it  false,  but  it  set  me  to  thinking.  'If 
your  daughter's  husband  had  turned  out  to  be 
as  you  once  thought  him,  would  it  be  right  for 
her  to  live  on  with  him?  To  live  a  lie,  to  pretend 
to  keep  her  vows  to  love  and  honor  him?  Would 
it  be  right  to  condemn  Gardiner  to  be  poisoned 
by  such  a  father?'  And  at  last  I  saw  the  truth, 
and  your  mother  agreed  with  me.  We  had 
been  too  narrow.  We  had  been  laying  down 
our  own  notions  as  God's  great  justice.." 


298  THE  COST 

Pauline  drew  away  from  her  father  so  that  she 
could  look  at  him.  And  at  last  she  saw  into  his 
heart.  "If  I  had  only  known,"  she  said,  and  sat 
numb  and  stunned. 

"When  you  were  coming  home  from  college," 
her  father  went  on,  "your  mother  and  I  talked 
over  what  we  should  do.  John  had  just  con 
fessed  your  secret  marriage — " 

"You  knew  that!" 

"Yes,  and  we  understood,  Polly.  You  were 
so  young — so  headstrong — and  you  couldn't  ap 
preciate  our  reasons." 

Pauline's  brain  was  reeling. 

"Your  mother  and  I  talked  it  over  before  you 
got  home  and  thought  it  best  to  leave  you  en 
tirely  free  to  choose.  But  when  we  saw  you 
overcome  by  joy — " 

"Don't!"  she  interrupted,  her  voice  a  cry  of 
pain.  "I  can't  bear  it !  Don't !"  Years  of  false 
self-sacrifice,  of  deceiving  her  parents  and  her 
child,  of  self-suppression  and  self-degradation, 
and  this  final  cruelty  to  Gladys — all,  all  in  vains 
all  a  heaping  of  folly  upon  folly,  of  wrong  upon 
wrong. 

She  rushed  toward  the  house.  She  must  fly 
somewhere — anywhere — to  escape  the  thoughts 


STORMS  IN  THE  WEST  299, 

that  were  picking  with  sharp  beaks  at  her  ach 
ing  heart.  Half-way  up  the  walk  she  turned  and 
fled  to  a  refuge  she  would  not  have  thought  of 
half  an  hour  before1 — to  her  father's  arms. 

"Oh,  father,"  she  cried.  "If  I  had  only  known 
you!" 

Gladys,  returning  from  her  walk,  went  di 
rectly  to  Pauline's  sitting-room. 

"I'm  off  for  New  York  and  Europe  to-mor 
row  morning,"  she  began  abruptly,  her  voice 
hard,  her  expression  bitter  and  reckless. 

"Where  can  she  have  heard  about  Leonora?" 
thought  Pauline.  She  said  in  a  strained  voice: 
"I  had  hoped  you  would  stay  here  to  look  after 
the  house." 

"To  look  after  the  house?  What  do  you 
mean?"  asked  Gladys.  But  she  was  too  full  of 
herself  to  be  interested  in  the  answer,  and  went 
on :  "I  want  you  to  forget  what  I  said  to  you. 
I've  got  over  all  that.  I've  come  to  my  senses." 

Pauline  began  a  nervous  turning  of  her  rings. 

Gladys  gave  a  short,  grim  laugh.  "I  detest 
hkn,"  she  went  on.  "We're  very  changeable, 
we  women,  aren't  we?  I  went  out  of  this  house 
two  hours  ago  loving  him — to  distraction.  I 


300  THE  COST 

came  back  hating  him.  And  all  that  has  hap 
pened  in  between  is  that  I  met  him  and  he  kissed 
me  a  few  times  and  stabbed  my  pride  a  few 
times." 

Pauline  stopped  turning  her  rings — she  rose 
slowly,  mechanically,  looked  straight  at  Gladys. 
"That  is  not  true,"  she  said  calmly. 

Gladys  laughed  sardonically.  "You  don't 
know  the  cold  and  haughty  Governor  Scarbor 
ough.  There's  fire  under  the  ice.  I  can  feel 
the  places  on  my  face  where  it  scorched.  Can't 
you  see  them?" 

Pauline  gave  her  a  look  of  disgust.  "How 
like  John  Dumont's  sister!"  she  thought.  And 
she  shut  herself  in  her  room  and  stayed  there, 
pleading  illness  in  excuse,  until  Gladys  was 
gone. 


XXIII. 

A  SEA  SURPRISE. 

On  the  third  day  from  New  York,  Gladys  was 
so  far  recovered  from  seasickness  that  she 
dragged  herself  to  the  deck.  The  water  was 
fairly  smooth,  but  a  sticky,  foggy  rain  was  fall 
ing.  A  deck-steward  put  her  steamer-chair  in 
a  sheltered  corner.  Her  maid  and  a  stewardess 
swathed  her  in  capes  and  rugs;  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  said :  "Now  leave  me,  please,  and  don't 
come  near  me  till  I  send  for  you." 

She  slept  an  hour.  When  she  awoke  she  felt 
better.  Some  one  had  drawn  a  chair  beside 
hers  and  was  seated  there — a  man,  for  she 
caught  the  faint  odor  of  a  pipe,  though  the  wind 
was  the  other  way.  She  turned  her  head.  It 
was  Langdon,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  she 
went  below  a  few  hours  after  Sandy  Hook  dis 
appeared.  Indeed,  she  had  almost  forgotten 
that  he  was  on  board  and  that  her  brother  had 
asked  him  to  look  after  her.  He  was  staring  at 
her  in  an  absent-minded  way,  his  wonted  expres- 

301 


302  THE  COST 

sion  of  satire  and  lazy  good-humor  fainter  than 
usual.  In  fact,  his  face  was  almost  serious. 

"That  pipe,"  she  grumbled.  "Please  do  put  it 
away." 

He  tossed  it  into  the  sea.  "Beg  pardon,"  he 
said.  "It  was  stupid  of  me.  I  was  absorbed  in 
— in  my  book." 

"What's  the  name  of  it?" 

He  turned  it  to  glance  at  the  cover,  but  she 
went  on:  "No — don't  tell  me.  I've  no  desire 
to  know.  I  asked  merely  to  confirm  my  sus 
picion." 

"You're  right,"  he  said.  "I  wasn't  reading. 
I  was  looking  at  you." 

"That  was  impertinent.  A  man  should  not 
look  at  a  woman  when  she  doesn't  intend  him 
to  look." 

"Then  I'd  never  look  at  all.  I'm  interested 
only  in  things  not  meant  for  my  eyes.  I  might 
even  read  letters  not  addressed  to  me  if  I  didn't 
know  how  dull  letters  are.  No  intelligent  per 
son  ever  says  anything  in  a  letter  nowadays. 
They  use  the  telegraph  for  ordinary  correspon 
dence,  and  telepathy  for  the  other  kind.  But  it 
was  interesting — looking  at  you  as  you  lay 
asleep." 


A  SEA  SURPRISE  303 

"Was  my  mouth  open?" 

"A  little." 

"Am  I  yellow?" 

"Very." 

"Eyes  red?    Hair  in  strings?    Lips  blue?" 

"All  that,"  he  said,  "and  skin  somewhat  mot 
tled.  But  I  was  not  so  much  interested  in  your 
beauty  as  I  was  in  trying  to  determine  whether 
you  were  well  enough  to  stand  two  shocks." 

"I  need  them,"  replied  Gladys. 

"One  is  rather  unpleasant,  the  other — the 
reverse — in  fact  a  happiness." 

"The  unpleasant  first,  please." 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  "Always  the  medi 
cine  first,  then  the  candy."  And  he  leaned  back 
and  closed  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  be  settling 
himself  for  indefinite  silence. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  impatiently.  "What's  the 
medicine?  A  death?" 

"I  said  unpleasant,  didn't  I?  When  an  enemy 
dies  it's  all  joy.  When  a  friend  passes  over  to 
eternal  bliss,  why,  being  good  Christians,  we  are 
not  so  faithless  and  selfish  as  to  let  the  momen 
tary  separation  distress  us." 

"But  what  is  it?  You're  trying  to  gain  time 
by  all  this  beating  about  the  bush.  You  ought 


304  THE  COST 

to  know  me  well  enough  to  know  you  can  speak 
straight  out." 

"Fanshaw's  suing  his  wife  for  divorce — and  he 
names  Jack." 

"Is  that  your  news?"  said  Gladys,  languidly. 
Suddenly  she  flung  aside  the  robes  and  sat  up. 
"What's  Pauline  going  to  do?  Can  she — " 
Gladys  paused. 

"Yes,  she  can — if  she  wishes  to." 

"But— will  she?  Will  she?"  demanded 
Gladys. 

"Jack  doesn't  know  what  she'll  do,"  replied 
Langdon.  "He's  keeping  quiet — the  only  sane 
course  when  that  kind  of  storm  breaks.  He  had 
hoped  you'd  be  there  to  smooth  her  down,  but 
he  says  when  he  opened  the  subject  of  your 
going  back  to  Saint  X  you  cut  him  off." 

"Does  she  know?" 

"Somebody  must  have  told  her  the  day  you 
left.  Don't  you  remember,  she  was  taken  ill 
suddenly?" 

"Oh!"  Gladys  vividly  recalled  Pauline's 
strange  look  and  manner.  She  could  see  her 
sister-in-law — the  long,  lithe  form,  the  small, 
graceful  head,  with  its  thick,  soft,  waving  hair, 
the  oval  face,  the  skin  as  fine  as  the  petals  at  the 


A  SEA  SURPRISE  305 

heart  of  a  rose,  the  arched  brows  and  golden- 
brown  eyes ;  that  look,  that  air,  as  of  buoyant  life 
locked  in  the  spell  of  an  icy  trance,  mysterious, 
fascinating,  sometimes  so  melancholy. 

"I  almost  hope  she'll  do  it,  Mowbray,"  she 
said.  "Jack  doesn't  deserve  her.  He's  not  a  bit 
her  sort.  She  ought  to  have  married — " 

"Some  one  who  had  her  sort  of  ideals — some 
one  like  that  big,  handsome  chap — the  one  you 
admired  so  frantically — Governor  Scarborough. 
He  was  chock  full  of  ideals.  And  he's  making 
the  sort  of  career  she  could  sympathize  with." 

"Scarborough !"  exclaimed  Gladys,  with  some 
success  at  self-concealment.  "I  detest  him!  I 
detest  'careers' !" 

"Gcod,"  said  Langdon,  his  face  serious,  his 
eyes  amused.  "That  opens  the  way  for  my  other 
shock." 

"Oh,  the  good  news.    What  is  it?" 

"That  I'd  like  it  if  you'd  marry  me." 

Gladys  glanced  into  his  still  amused  eyes,  then 
with  a  shrug  sank  back  among  her  wraps.  "A 
poor  joke,"  she  said. 

"I  should  say  that  marriage  was  a  stale  joke 
rather  than  a  poor  one.  Will  you  try  it — with 
me  ?  You  might  do  worse." 


306  THE  COST 

"How  did  you  have  the  courage  to  speak 
when  I'm  looking  such  a  wreck?"  she  asked  with 
mock  gravity. 

"But  you  ain't — you're  looking  better  now. 
That  first  shock  braced  you  up.  Besides,  this 
isn't  romance.  It's  no  high  flight  with  all  the 
longer  drop  and  all  the  harder  jolt  at  the  land 
ing.  It's  a  plain,  practical  proposition." 

Gladys  slowly  sat  up  and  studied  him 
curiously. 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she  asked.  Each 
was  leaning  on  an  elbow,  gazing  gravely  into 
the  other's  face. 

"I'd  never  joke  on  such  a  dangerous  subject 
as  marriage.  I'm  far  too  timid  for  that.  What 
do  you  say,  Gladys?" 

She  had  never  seen  him  look  serious  before, 
and  she  was  thinking  that  the  expression  became 
him. 

"He  knows  how  to  make  himself  attractive  to 
a  woman  when  he  cares  to,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"I'd  like  a  man  that  has  lightness  of  mind. 
Serious  people  bore  one  so  after  a  while."  By 
"serious  people"  she  meant  one  serious  person 
whom  she  had  admired  particularly  for  his 
seriousness.  But  she  was  in  another  mood  now, 


A  SEA  SURPRISE  307 

another  atmosphere — the  atmosphere  she  had 
breathed  since  she  was  thirteen,  except  in  the 
brief  period  when  her  infatuation  for  Scarbor 
ough  had  swept  her  away  from  her  world. 

"No!"  She  shook  her  head  with  decision — 
and  felt  decided.  But  to  his  practised  ear  there 
was  in  her  voice  a  hint  that  she  might  hear  him 
further  on  the  subject. 

They  lay  back  in  their  chairs,  he  watching  the 
ragged,  dirty,  scurrying  clouds,  she  watching 
him.  After  a  while  he  said :  "Where  are  you 
going  when  we  reach  the  other  side?" 

"To  join  mother  and  auntie." 

"And  how  long  will  you  stay  with  them?" 

"Not  more  than  a  week,  I  should  say,"  she 
answered  with  a  grimace. 

"And  then— where?" 

She  did  not  reply  for  some  time.  Studying 
her  face,  he  saw  an  expression  of  lonesomeness 
gather  and  strengthen  and  deepen  until  she 
looked  so  forlorn  that  he  felt  as  if  he  must  take 
her  in  his  arms.  When  she  spoke  it  was  to  say 
dubiously :  "Back  to  New  York — to  keep  house 
for  my  brother — perhaps." 

"And  when  his  wife  frees  herself  and  he  mar 
ries  again — where  will  you  go?" 


308  THE  COST 

Gladys  lifted  a  fold  of  her  cape  and  drew  it 
about  her  as  if  she  were  cold.  But  he  noted 
that  it  hid  her  face  from  him. 

"You  want — you  need — a  home?  So  do  I," 
he  went  on  tranquilly.  "You  are  tired  of  wan 
dering?  So  am  I.  You  are  bored  with  parade 
and  parade-people?  So  am  I.  You  wish  free 
dom,  not  bondage,  when  you  marry?  I  refuse 
to  be  bound,  and  I  don't  wish  to  bind  any  one. 
We  have  the  s'ame  friends,  the  same  tastes,  have 
had  pretty  much  the  same  experiences.  You 
don't  want  to  be  married  for  your  money.  I'm 
not  likely  to  be  suspected  of  doing  that  sort  of 
thing."  * 

"Some  one  has  said  that  rich  men  marry  more 
often  for  money  than  poor  men,"  interrupted 
Gladys.  And  then  she  colored  as  she  recalled 
who  had  said  it. 

Langdon  noted  her  color  as  he  noted  every 
point  in  any  game  he  was  playing;  he  shrewdly 
guessed  its  origin.  "When  Scarborough  told 
you  that,"  he  replied  calmly,  "he  told  you  a 
great  truth.  But  please  remember,  I  merely  said 
I  shouldn't  be  suspected  of  marrying  you  for 
tnoney.  I  didn't  say  I  wasn't  guilty." 

"Is  your  list  of  reasons  complete?" 


A  SEA  SURPRISE  309 

"Two  more — the  clinchers.  You  are  disap 
pointed  in  love — so  am  I.  You  need  consola 
tion — so  do  I.  When  one  can't  have  the  best 
one  takes  the  best  one  can  get,  if  one  is  sensible. 
It  has  been  known  to  turn  out  not  so  badly." 

They  once  more  lay  back  watching  the  clouds. 
An  hour  passed  without  cither's  speaking.  The 
deck-steward  brought  them  tea  and  biscuits 
which  he  declined  and  she  accepted.  She  tried 
the  big,  hard,  tasteless  disk  between  her  strong 
white  teeth,  then  said  with  a  sly  smile:  "You 
pried  into  my  secret  a  few  minutes  ago>.  I'm 
going  to  pry  into  yours.  Who  was  she?" 

"As  the  lady  would  have  none  of  me,  there's 
no  harm  in  confessing,"  replied  Langdon,  care 
lessly.  "She  was — and  is — and — "  he  looked 
at  her — "ever  shall  be,  world  without  end — 
Gladys  Dumont." 

Gladys  gasped  and  glanced  at  him  with  swift 
suspicion  that  he  was  jesting.  He  returned  her 
glance  in  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  way.  She  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  and  they  watched  the  slippery 
rail  slide  up  and  down  against  the  background 
of  chilly,  rainy  sea  and  sky. 

"Are  you  asleep?"  he  asked  after  a  long 
silence. 


310  THE  COST 

"No,"  she  replied.    "I  was  thinking." 

"Of  my — proposition?" 

"Yes." 

"Doesn't  it  grow  on  you?" 

"Yes." 

He  shifted  himself  to  a  sitting  position  with 
much  deliberateness.  He  put  his  hand  in  among 
her  rugs  and  wraps  until  it  touched  hers.  "It 
may  turn  out  better  than  you  anticipate,"  he 
said,  a  little  sentiment  in  his  eyes  and  smile,  a 
little  raillery  in  his  voice. 

"I  doubt  if  it  will,"  she  answered,  without 
looking  at  him  directly.  "For — I — anticipate  a 
great  deal." 


XXIV. 

DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT. 

Fanshaw  versus  Fanshaw  was  heard  privately 
by  a  referee ;  and  before  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  lawyers 
had  a  chance  to  ask  that  the  referee's  report  be 
sealed  from  publicity,  the  judge  of  his  own  mo 
tion  ordered  it.  At  the  political  club  to  which 
he  belonged,  he  had  received  an  intimation 
from  the  local  "boss"  that  if  Dumont's  name 
were  anywhere  printed  in  connection  with  the 
case  he  would  be  held  responsible.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  on  the  morning  of  the  filing  of  the 
decree  the  newspapers  were  grumbling  over 
their  inability  to  give  the  eagerly-awaited  details 
of  the  great  scandal.  And  Herron  was  Catoniz- 
ing  against  "judicial  corruption." 

But  Dumont  was  overswift  in  congratulating 
himself  on  his  escape  and  in  preening  himself  on 
his  power. 

For  several  days  the  popular  newspapers  were 
alone  in  denouncing  the  judge  for  favoritism 
and  in  pointing  out  that  the  judiciary  were  "be 
coming  subservient  to  the  rich  and  the  power- 

311 


312  THE  COST 

ful  in  their  rearrangements  of  their  domestic  re 
lations — a  long  first  step  toward  complete  sub 
servience."  Herron  happened  to  have  among 
his  intimates  the  editor  of  an  eminently  respect 
able  newspaper  that  prides  itself  upon  never 
publishing  private  scandals.  He  impressed  his 
friend  with  his  own  strong  views  as  to  the  grav 
ity  of  this  growing  discrimination  between 
masses  and  classes;  and  the  organ  of  independ 
ent  conservatism  was  presently  lifting  up  its  sol 
emn  voice  in  a  stentorian  jeremiad. 

Without  this  reinforcement  the  "yellows" 
might  have  shrieked  in  vain.  It  was  assumed 
that  baffled  sensationalism  was  by  far  a  stronger 
motive  with  them  than  justice,  and  the  pub 
lic  was  amused  rather  than  aroused  by  their 
protests.  But  now  soberer  dailies  and  weeklies 
took  up  the  case  and  the  discussion  spread  to 
other  cities,  to  the  whole  country.  By  his  au 
dacity,  by  his  arrogant  frankness — he  had  lat 
terly  treated  public  opinion  with  scantiest  cour 
tesy — by  his  purchase  of  campaign  committees, 
and  legislatures,  and  courts,  Dumont  had 
made  himself  in  the  public  mind  an  embodi 
ment  of  the  "mighty  and  menacing  plutocracy" 
of  which  the  campaign  orators  talked  so  much. 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  313 

And  the  various  phases  of  the  scandal  gave  the 
press  a  multitude  of  texts  for  satirical,  or  pessi 
mistic,  or  fiery  discourses  upon  the  public  and 
private  rottenness  of  "plutocrats." 

But  Dumont's  name  was  never  directly  men 
tioned.  Every  one  knew  who  was  meant;  no 
newspaper  dared  to  couple  him  in  plain  lan 
guage  with  the  scandal.  The  nearest  approach 
to  it  was  where  one  New  York  newspaper  pub 
lished,  without  comment,  in  the  center  of  a  long 
news  article  on  the  case,  two  photographs  of  Du- 
mont  side  by  side — one  taken  when  he  first 
came  to  New  York,  clear-cut,  handsome,  cour 
ageous,  apparently  a  type  of  progressive  young 
manhood;  the  other,  taken  within  the  year, 
gross,  lowering,  tyrannical,  obviously  a  type  of 
indulged,  self-indulgent  despot. 

Herron  had  forced  Fanshaw  to  abandon  the 
idea  of  suing  Dumont  for  a  money  consolation. 
He  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  his  wife's 
warnings  against  Fanshaw — "a  lump  of  soot, 
and  sure  to  smutch  you  if  you  go  near  him." 
He  was  reluctant  to  have  Fanshaw  give  up  the 
part  of  the  plan  which  insured  the  public  dam 
nation  of  Dumont,but  there  was  no  other  pru 
dent  course.  He  assured  himself  that  he  knew 


314  THE  COST 

Fanshaw  to  be  an  upright  man;  but  he  did  not 
go  to  so  perilous  a  length  in  self-deception  as 
to  fancy  he  could  convince  cynical  and  incred 
ulous  New  York.  It  was  too  eager  to  find  ex 
cuses  for  successful  and  admired  men  like  Du- 
mont,  too  ready  to  laugh  at  and  despise  under 
dogs  like  Fanshaw.  Herron  never  admitted  it 
to  himself,  but  in  fact  it  was  he  who  put  it  into 
Fanshaw's  resourceless  mind  to  compass  the 
revenge  of  publicity  in  another  way. 

Fanshaw  was  denouncing  the  judge  for  seal 
ing  the  divorce  testimony,  and  the  newspapers 
for  being  so  timid  about  libel  laws  and  contempt 
of  court. 

"If  a  newspaper  should  publish  the  testi 
mony,"  said  Herron,  "Judge  Glassford  wrould 
never  dare  bring  the  editor  before  him  for  con 
tempt.  His  record's  too  bad.  I  happen  to  know 
he  was  in  the  News-Record  office  no  longer  ago 
than  last  month,  begging  for  the  suppression  of 
an  article  that  might  have  caused  his  impeach 
ment,  if  published.  So  there's  one  paper  that 
wouldn't  be  afraid  of  him." 

"Then  why  does  it  shield  the  scoundrel?" 

"Perhaps,"  replied  Herron,  his  hand  on  the 
door  of  his  office  law-library,  "it  hasn't  been  able 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  315 

to  get  hold  of  a  copy  of  the  testimony."  And 
having  thus  dropped  the  seed  on  good  soil, 
he  left. 

Fanshaw  waited  several  weeks,  waited  until 
certain  other  plans  of  his  and  Herron's  were 
perfected.  Then  he  suddenly  deluged  the  sink 
ing  flames  of  the  divorce  discussion  with  a  huge 
outpouring  of  oil.  Indirectly  and  with  great 
secrecy  he  sent  a  complete  copy  of  the  testi 
mony  to  the  newspaper  Herron  had  mentioned, 
the  most  sensational,  and  one  of  the  most  widely 
circulated  in  New  York. 

The  next  morning  Dumont  had  to  ring  three 
times  for  his  secretary.  When  Culver  finally 
appeared  he  had  in  his  trembling  right  hand  a 
copy  of  the  News-Record.  His  face  suggested 
that  he  was  its  owner,  publisher  and  responsible 
editor,  and  that  he  expected  then  and  there  to 
be  tortured  to  death  for  the  two  illustrated  pages 
of  the  "Great  Fanshaw-Dumont  Divorce!  All 
the  Testimony!  Shocking  Revelations!" 

"I  thought  it  necessary  for  you  to  know  this 
without  delay,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  shaky  voice, 
as  he  held  out  the  newspaper  to  his  master. 

Dumont  grew  sickly  yellow  with  the  first 
glance  at  those  head-lines.  He  had  long  been 


316  THE  COST 

used  to  seeing  extensive  and  highly  unflattering 
accounts  of  himself -and  his  doings  in  print;  but 
theretofore  every  open  attack  had  been  on  some 
public  matter  where  a  newspaper  "pounding" 
might  be  attributed  to  politics  or  stock-jobbery. 
Here — it  was  a  verbatim  official  report,  and  of  a 
private  scandal,  more  dangerous  to  his  financial 
standing  than  the  fiercest  assault  upon  his  hon 
esty  as  a  financier;  for  it  tore  away  the  founda 
tion  of  reputation — private  character.  A  faith 
ful  transcript  throughout,  it  portrayed  him 
as  a  bag  of  slimy  gold  and  gilded  slime.  He 
hated  his  own  face  staring  out  at  him  from  a 
three-column  cut  in  the  center  of  the  first 
page — its  heavy  jaw,  its  cynical  mouth,  its  im 
pudent  eyes.  "Do  I  look  like  that?"  he  thought. 
He  was  like  one  who,  walking  along  the  streets, 
catches  sight  of  his  own  image  in  a  show-win 
dow  mirror  and  before  he  recognizes  it,  sees 
himself  as  others  see  him.  He  flushed  to  his 
temples  at  the  contrast  with  the  smaller  cut 
beside  it — the  face  of  Pauline,  high  and  fine, 
icily  beautiful  as  always  in  her  New  York  days 
when  her  features  were  in  repose. 

Culver  shifted  from  one  weak  leg  to  the  other, 
and  the  movement  reminded  Dumont    of   his 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  317, 

existence.  "That's  all.  Clear  out!"  he  ex 
claimed,  and  fell  back  into  his  big  chair  and 
closed  his  eyes.  He  thought  he  at  last  under 
stood  publicity. 

But  he  was  mistaken. 

He  finished  dressing  and  choked  down  a  lit 
tle  breakfast.  As  he  advanced  toward  the  front 
door  the  servant  there  coughed  uneasily  and 
said :  "Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  fear  you  won't  be 
able  to  get  out." 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded,  his 
brows  contracting  and  his  lips  beginning  to  slide 
back  in  a  snarl — it  promised  to  be  a  sad  morning 
for  human  curs  of  all  kinds  who  did  not  scurry 
out  of  the  lion's  way. 

"The  crowd,  sir,"  said  the  servant.  And  he 
drew  aside  the  curtain  across  the  glass  in  one  of 
the  inside  pair  of  great  double  doors  of  the 
palace  entrance.  "It's  quite  safe  to  look,  sir. 
They  can't  see  through  the  outside  doors  as  far 
as  this." 

Dumont  peered  through  the  bronze  fretwork. 
A  closely  packed  mass  of  people  was  choking 
the  sidewalk  and  street — his  brougham  was  like 
an  island  in  a  troubled  lake.  He  saw  several 
policemen — they  were  trying  to  move  the  crowd 


318  THE  COST 

on,  but  not  trying  sincerely.  He  saw  three  huge 
cameras,  their  operators  under  the  black  cloths, 
their  lenses  pointed  at  the  door — waiting  for 
him  to  appear.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
completely  lost  his  nerve.  Not  only  publicity, 
the  paper — a  lifeless  sheet  of  print;  but  also 
publicity,  the  public — with  living  eyes  to  peer 
and  living  voices  to  jeer.  He  looked  helplessly, 
appealingly  at  the  "cur"  he  had  itched  to  kick 
the  moment  before. 

"What  the  devil  shall  I  do?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  without  a  trace  of  courage. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  the  servant.  "The 
basement  door  wouldn't  help  very  much,  would 
it?" 

The  basement  door  was  in  front  also.  "Idiot  I 
Is  there  no  way  out  at  the  rear?"  he  asked. 

"Only  over  the  fences,  sir,"  said  the  servant, 
perfectly  matter-of-fact.  Having  no  imagina 
tion,  his  mind  made  no  picture  of  the  great 
captain  of  industry  scrambling  over  back  fences 
like  a  stray  cat  flying  from  a  brick. 

Dumont  turned  back  and  into  his  first-floor 
sitting-room.  He  unlocked  his  stand  of  brandy 
bottles,  poured  out  an  enormous  drink  and 
gulped  it  down.  His  stomach  reeled,  then  his 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  319 

head.  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
— there  must  have  been  five  hundred  people  in 
the  street,  and  vehicles  were  making  their  way 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  drivers  gaping  at  the 
house  and  joking  with  the  crowd*  new-sboys, 
bent  sidewise  to  balance  their  huge  bundles  j£ 
papers,  were  darting  in  and  out,  and  even 
through  the  thick  plate  glass  he  could  hear: 
"All  about  Millionaire  Dumont's  disgrace !" 

He  went  through  to  a  rear  window.  No, 
there  was  a  continuous  wall,  a  high  brick  wall. 
A  servant  came  and  told  him  he  was  wanted  at 
the  telephone.  It  was  Giddings,  who  said  in  a 
voice  that  was  striving  in  vain  to  be  calm  against 
the  pressure  of  some  intense  excitement:  "You 
are  coming  down  to-day,  Mr.  Dumont?" 

"Why?"  asked  Dumont,  snapping  the  word 
out  as  short  and  savage  as  the  crack  of  a  lash. 

"There  are  disquieting  rumors  of  a  raid  on 


"Who's  to  do  the  raiding?" 

"They  say  it's  Patterson  and  Fanning-Smith 
and  Cassell  and  Herron.  It's  a  raid  for  control." 

Dumont  snorted  scornfully.  "Don't  fret. 
We're  all  right.  I'll  be  down  soon."  And  he 
hung  up  the  receiver,  muttering:  "The  ass!  I 


320  THE  COST 

must  kick  him  out!  He's  an  old  woman  the  in 
stant  I  turn  my  back." 

He  had  intended  not  to  go  down,  but  to  shut 
himself  in  with  the  brandy  bottle  until  night 
fall.  This  news  made  his  presence  in  the  Street 
imperative.  "They  couldn't  have  sprung  at  me 
at  a  worse  time,"  he  muttered.  "But  I  can  take 
care  of  'em!" 

He  returned  to  the  library,  took  another 
drink,  larger  than  the  first.  His  blood  began  to 
pound  through  his  veins  and  to  rush  along  under 
the  surface  of  his  skin  like  a  sheet  of  fire. 
Waves  of  fury  surged  into  his  brain,  making  him 
dizzy,  confusing  his  sight — he  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  grinding  his  teeth.  He  descended 
to  the  basement,  his  step  unsteady. 

"A  ladder,"  he  ordered  in  a  thick  voice. 

He  led  the  way  to  the  rear  wall.  A  dozen 
men-servants  swarming  about,  tried  to  assist 
him.  He  ordered  them  aside  and  began  to 
climb.  As  the  upper  part  of  his  body  rose  above 
the  wall-line  he  heard  a  triumphant  shout,  many 
voices  crying:  "There  he  is!  There  he  is!" 

The  lot  round  the  corner  from  his  place  was 
not  built  upon ;  and  there,  in  the  side  street,  was 
a  rapidly  swelling  crowd,  the  camera-bearers 


WITH    A    ROARING    HOWL    HE    RELEASED    HIS    HOLD    UPOM 
THE    LADDER 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  321 

hastily  putting  their  instruments  in  position,  the 
black  cloths  fluttering  like  palls  or  pirate  flags. 
With  a  roaring  howl  he  released  his  hold  upon 
the  ladder  and  shook  both  fists,  his  swollen  face 
blazing  between  them.  He  tottered,  fell  back 
ward,  crashed  upon  the  stone  flooring  of  the 
area.  His  head  struck  with  a  crack  that  made 
the  women-servants  scream.  The  men  lifted 
him  and  carried  him  into  the  house.  He  was 
not  stunned;  he  tried  to  stand.  But  he  stag 
gered  back  into  the  arms  of  his  valet  and  his  but 
ler. 

"Brandy!"  he  gasped. 

He  took  a  third  drink — and  became  uncon 
scious.  When  the  doctor  arrived  he  was  raving 
in  a  high  fever.  For  years  he  had  drunk  to  ex 
cess — but  theretofore  only  when  he  chose,  never 
when  his  appetite  chose,  never  when  his  affairs 
needed  a  clear  brain.  Now  appetite,  long  lying 
in  wait  for  him,  had  found  him  helpless  in  the 
clutches  of  rage  and  fear,  and  had  stolen  away 
his  mind 

The  news  was  telephoned  to  the  office  at  half- 
past  eleven  o'clock.  "It  doesn't  matter,"  said 
Giddings.  "He'd  only  make  things  worse  if  he 
were  to  come  now." 


THE  COST 

Giddings  was  apparently  right.  From  a  tower 
of  strength,  supporting  alone,  yet  with  ease, 
National  Woolens,  and  the  vast  structure  based 
upon  it,  Dumont  had  crumbled  into  an  obstruc 
tion  and  a  weakness.  There  is  an  abysmal  dif 
ference  between  everybody  knowing  a  thing  pri 
vately  and  everybody  knowing  precisely  the 
same  thing  publicly.  In  that  newspaper  expos- 
tire  there  was  no  fact  of  importance  that  was 
not  known  to  the  entire  Street,  to  his  chief  sup 
porters  in  his  great  syndicate  of  ranches,  rail 
roads,  factories,  steamship  lines  and  selling 
agencies.  But  the  tremendous  blare  of  pub 
licity  acted  like  Joshua's  horns  at  Jericho.  The 
solid  walls  of  his  public  reputation  tottered,  top 
pled,  fell  flat. 

There  had  been  a  tight  money-market  for  two 
weeks.  Though  there  had  been  uneasiness  as  to 
all  the  small  and  many  of  the  large  "industrials," 
belief  in  National  Woolens  and  in  the  stability 
of  John  Dumont  had  remained  strong.  But  of 
all  the  cowards  that  stand  sentinel  for  capital, 
the  most  craven  is  Confidence.  At  the  deafen 
ing  crash  of  the  fall  of  Dumont's  private  char 
acter,  Confidence  girded  its  loins  and  tightened 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  323 

its  vocal  cords  to  be  in  readiness  for  a  shrieking 
flight. 

Dumont  ruled,  through  a  parent  and  central 
corporation,  the  National  Woolens  Company, 
which  held  a  majority  of  the  stock  in  each  of  the 
seventeen  corporations  constituting  the  trust. 
His  control  was  in  part  through  ownership  of 
Woolens  stock  but  chiefly  through  proxies  sent 
him  by  thousands  of  small  stock-holders  because 
they  had  confidence  in  his  abilities.  To  wrest  con 
trol  from  him  it  was  necessary  for  the  raiders 
both  to  make  him  "unload"  his  own  holdings  of 
stock  and  to  impair  his  reputation  so  that  his 
supporters  would  desert  him  or  stand  aloof. 

On  the  previous  day  National  Woolens  closed 
at  eighty-two  for  the  preferred  and  thirty-nine 
for  the  common.  In  the  first  hour  of  the  day  of 
the  raid  Giddings  and  the  other  members  of 
Dumont's  supporting  group  of  financiers  were 
able  to  keep  it  fairly  steady  at  about  five  points 
below  the  closing  price  of  the  previous  day,  by 
buying  all  that  was  offered — the  early  offerings 
were  large,  but  not  overwhelming.  The  sup 
porters  of  other  industrials  saw  that  the  assault 
on  Woolens  was  a  menace  to  their  stocks — if  a 
strong  industrial  weakened,  the  weaker  ones 


324  THE  COST 

would  inevitably  suffer  disaster  in  the  frightened 
market  that  would  surely  result.  They  showed 
a  disposition  to  rally  to  the  support  of  the  Du- 
mont  stocks. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Giddings  began  to  hope  that 
the  raid  was  a  failure,  if  indeed  it  had  been  a 
real  raid.  At  eleven-twenty  Herron  played  his 
trump  card. 

The  National  Industrial  Bank  is  the  huge 
barometer  to  which  both  speculative  and  invest 
ing  Wall  Street  looks  for  guidance.  Whom  that 
bank  protects  is  as  safe  as  was  the  medieval 
fugitive  who  laid  hold  of  the  altar  in  the  sanc 
tuary;  whom  that  bank  frowns  upon  in  the  hour 
of  stress  is  lost  indeed  if  he  have  so  much  as 
a  pin's-point  area  of  heel  that  is  vulnerable. 
Melville,  president  of  the  National  Industrial, 
was  a  fanatically  religious  man,  with  as  keen  a 
nose  for  heretics  as  for  rotten  spots  in  collateral. 
He  was  peculiarly  savage  in  his  hatred  of  all 
matrimonial  deviations.  He  was  a  brother  of 
Fanshaw's  mother;  and  she  and  Herron  had 
been  working  upon  him.  But  so  long  as  Du- 
mont's  share  in  the  scandal  was  not  publicly  at 
tributed  he  remained  obdurate — he  never  per 
mitted  his  up-town  creed  or  code  to  interfere 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  325 

with  his  down-town  doings  unless  it  became 
necessary — that  is,  unless  it  could  be  done  with 
out  money  loss.  For  up-town  or  down-town, 
to  make  money  was  always  and  in  all  circum 
stances  the  highest  morality,  to  lose  money  the 
profoundest  immorality. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  eleven  Melville  and 
the  president  of  the  other  banks  of  his  chain 
^lled  loans  to  Dumont  and  the  Dumont  sup 
porting  group  to  the  amount  of  three  millions 
and  a  quarter.  Ten  minutes  later  other  banks 
and  trust  companies  whose  loans  to  Dumont 
and  his  allies  either  were  on  call  or  contained 
provisions  permitting  a  demand  for  increased 
collateral,  followed  Melville's  example  and 
aimed  and  sped  their  knives  for  Dumont's  vitals. 

Giddings  found  himself  face  to  face  with  un 
expected  and  peremptory  demands  for  eleven 
millions  in  cash  and  thirteen  millions  in  addi 
tional  collateral  securities.  If  he  did  not  meet 
these  demands  forthwith  the  banks  and  trus' 
companies,  to  protect  themselves,  would  throw 
upon  the  market  at  whatever  price  they  could 
get  the  thirty-odd  millions  of  Woolens  stocks 
which  they  held  as  collateral  for  the  loans. 

"What  does  this   mean,   Eaversole?"  he  ex- 


326  THE  COST 

claimed,  with  white,  wrinkled  lips,  heavy  cir 
cles  suddenly  appearing  under  his  eyes.  "Is 
Melville  trying  to  ruin  everything?" 

"No,"  answered  Eaversole,  third  vice-presi 
dent  of  the  company.  "He's  supporting  the 
market,  all  except  us  He  says  Dumont  must 
be  driven  out  of  the  Street.  He  says  his  pres 
ence  here  is  a  pollution  and  a  source  of  constant 
danger." 

The  National  Woolens  supporting  group  was 
alone;  it  could  get  no  help  from  any  quarter, 
as  every  possible  ally  was  frightened  into  his 
own  breastworks  for  the  defense  of  his  own 
interests.  Dumont,  the  brain  and  the  will  of 
the  group,  had  made  no  false  moves  in  business, 
had  been  bold  only  where  his  matchless  judg 
ment  showed  him  a  clear  way;  but  he  had  not 
foreseen  the  instantaneous  annihilation  of  his 
chief  asset — his  reputation. 

Giddings  sustained  the  unequal  battle  superb 
ly.  He  was  cool,  and  watchful,  and  effective. 
It  is  doubtful  if  Dumont  himself  could  have 
done  so  well,  handicapped  as  he  would  have  been 
on  that  day  by  the  Fanshaw  scandal.  Giddings 
cajoled  and  threatened,  retreated  slowly  here, 
advanced  intrepidly  there.  On  the  one  side,  he 


DUMONT  BETRAYS  DUMONT  327 

held  back  wavering  banks  and  trust  companies,, 
persuading  some  that  all  was  well,  warning 
others  that  if  they  pressed  him  they  would  lose 
all.  On  the  other  side,  he  faced  his  powerful 
foes  and  made  them  quake  as  they  saw  their 
battalions  of  millions  roll  upon  his  unbroken  line 
of  battle  only  to  break  and  disappear.  At  noon 
National  Woolens  preferred  was  at  fifty-eight, 
the  common  at  twenty-nine.  Giddings  was  be 
ginning  to  hope. 

At  three  minutes  past  noon  the  tickers  clicked 
out:  "It  is  reported  that  John  Dumont  is 
dying." 

As  that  last  word  jerked  letter  by  letter  from 
under  the  printing  wheel  the  floor  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  became  the  rapids  of  a  human  Niag 
ara.  By  messenger,  by  telegraph,  by  telephone, 
holders  of  National  Woolens  and  other  indus 
trials,  in  the  financial  district,  in  all  parts  of  the 
country,  across  the  sea,  poured  in  their  selling 
orders  upon  the  frenzied  brokers.  And  all  these 
forces  of  hysteria  and  panic,  projected  into  that 
narrow,  roofed-in  space,  made  of  it  a  chaos  of 
contending  demons.  All  stocks  were  caught 
in  the  upheaval;  Melville's  plans  to  limit  the  ex 
plosion  were  blown  skyward,  feeble  as  straws  in 


THE  COST 

a  cyclone.  Amid  shrieks  and  howls  and  frantic 
tossings  of  arms  and  mad  rushes  and  maniac 
contortions  of  faces,  National  Woolens  and  all 
the  Dumont  stocks  bent,  broke,  went  smashing 
down,  down,  down,  every  one  struggling  to  un 
load. 

Dumont's  fortune  was  the  stateliest  of  the 
many  galleons  that  day  driven  on  the  rocks  and 
wrecked.  Dumont's  crew  was  for  the  most  part 
engulfed.  Gid dings  and  a  few  selected  friends 
reached  the  shore  half-drowned  and  humbly  ap 
plied  at  the  wreckers'  camp;  they  were  hos 
pitably  received  and  were  made  as  comfortable 
as  their  exhausted  condition  permitted. 

John  Dumont  was  at  the  mercy  of  Hubert 
Herron  in  his  own  company.  If  he  lived  he 
would  be  president  only  until  the  next  annual 
meeting — less  than  two  months  away;  and  the 
Herron  crowd  had  won  over  enough  of  his 
board  of  directors  to  make  him  meanwhile  pow* 
erless  where  he  had  been  autocrat. 


XXV. 

THE  FALLEN  KING. 

Toward  noon  the  next  day  Dumont  emerged 
from  the  stupor  into  which  Doctor  Sackett's  opi 
ate  had  plunged  him.  At  once  his  mind  began  to 
grope  about  for  the  broken  clues  of  his  business. 
His  valet  appeared. 

"The  morning  papers,"  said  Dumont. 

"Yes,  sir/'  replied  the  valet,  and  disappeared. 

After  a  few  seconds  Culver  came  and  halted 
just  within  the  doorway.  "I'm  sorry,  sir,  but 
Doctor  Sackett  left  strict  orders  that  you  were  to 
be  quiet.  Your  life  depends  on  it." 

Dumont  scowled  and  his  lower  lip  projected 
— the  crowning  touch  in  his  most  imperious  ex 
pression.  "The  papers,  all  of  'em, — quick!"  he 
commanded. 

Culver  took  a  last  look  at  the  blue-white  face 
and  bloodshot  eyes  to  give  him  courage  to  stand 
firm.  "The  doctor'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes," 
he  said,  bowed  and  went  out. 

Choking  with  impotent  rage,  Dumont  rang 
for  his  valet  and  forced  him  to  help  him  dress. 


330  THE  COST 

He  was  so  weak  when  he  finished  that  only  his 
will  kept  him  from  fainting.  He  took  a  stiff 
drink  of  the  brandy — the  odor  was  sickening  to 
him  and  he  could  hardly  force  it  down.  But 
once  down,  it  strengthened  him. 

"No,  nothing  to  eat,"  he  said  thickly,  and 
with  slow  but  fairly  steady  step  left  his  room 
and  descended  to  the  library.  Culver  was  there 
— sat  agape  at  sight  of  his  master.  "But  you — 
you  must  not — "  he  began. 

Dumont  gave  him  an  ugly  grin.  "But  I  will !" 
he  said,  and  again  drank  brandy.  He  turned 
and  went  out  and  toward  the  front  door,  Culver 
following  with  stammering  protests  which  he 
heeded  not  at  all.  On  the  sidewalk  he  hailed 
a  passing  hansom.  "To  the  Edison  Building," 
he  said  and  drove  off,  Culver,  bareheaded  at 
the  curb,  looking  dazedly  after  him.  Before  he 
reached  Fifty-ninth  Street  he  was  half-sitting, 
half-reclining  in  the  corner  of  the  seat,  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  senses  sinking  into  a  stupor  from 
the  fumes  of  the  powerful  doses  of  brandy.  As 
the  hansom  drove  down  the  avenue  many  rec 
ognized  him,  wondered  and  pitied  as  they  noted 
his  color,  his  collapsed  body,  head  fallen  on  o/ne 
side,  mouth  open  and  lips  greenish  gray.  As 


THE  FALLEN  KING  331 

the  hansom  slowly  crossed  the  tracks  at  Twenty- 
third  Street  the  heavy  jolt  roused  him. 

"The  newspapers,"  he  muttered,  and  hurled 
up  through  the  trap  in  the  roof  an  order  to  the 
driver  to  stop.  He  leaned  over  the  doors  and 
bought  half  a  dozen  newspapers  of  the  woman  at 
the  Flat-iron  stand.  As  the  hansom  moved  on 
he  glanced  at  the  head-lines — they  were  big  and 
staring,  but  his  blurred  eyes  could  not  read 
them.  He  fell  asleep  again,  his  hands  clasped 
loosely  about  the  huge  proclamations  of  yes 
terday's  battle  and  his  rout. 

The  hansom  was  caught  in  a  jam  at  Chambers 
Street.  The  clamor  of  shouting,  swearing  drivers 
roused  him.  The  breeze  from  the  open  sea, 
blowing  straight  up  Broadway  into  his  face, 
braced  him  like  the  tonic  that  it  is.  He  straight 
ened  himself,  recovered  his  train  of  thought, 
stared  at  one  of  the  newspapers  and  tried  to 
grasp  the  meaning  of  its  head-lines.  But  they 
made  only  a  vague  impression  on  him. 

"It's  all  lies/'  he  muttered.  "Lies !  How  could 
those  fellows  smash  me!"  And  he  flung  the 
newspapers  out  of  the  hansom  into  the  faces  of 
two  boys  seated  upon  the  tail  of  a  truck. 

"You're  drunk  early,"  yelled  one  of  the  boys. 


332  THE  COST 

"That's  no  one-day  jag,"  shouted  the  other. 
"It's  a  hang-over." 

He  made  a  wild,  threatening  gesture  and,  as 
his  hansom  drove  on,  muttered  and  mumbled  to 
himself,  vague  profanity  aimed  at  nothing  and 
at  everything.  At  the  Edison  Building  he  got 
out. 

"Wait !"  he  said  to  the  driver.  He  did  not  see 
the  impudent  smirk  on  the  face  of  the  elevator 
boy  nor  the  hesitating,  sheepish  salutation  of 
the  door-man,  uncertain  how  to  greet  the  fallen 
king.  He  went  straight  to  his  office,  unlocked 
his  desk  and,  just  in  time  to  save  himself  from 
fainting,  seized  and  half-emptied  a  flask  of 
brandy  he  kept  in  a  drawer.  It  had  been  there 
— but  untouched — ever  since  he  came  to  New 
York  and  took  those  offices;  he  never  drank 
in  business  hours. 

His  head  was  aching  horribly  and  at  every 
throb  of  his  pulse  a  pain  tore  through  him.  He 
rang  for  his  messenger. 

"Tell  Mr.  Giddings  I  want  to  see  him — you!" 
he  said,  his  teeth  clenched  and  his  eyes  blazing — 
he  looked  insane. 

Giddings  came.  His  conscience  was  clear — 
he  had  never  liked  Dumont,  owed  him  nothing, 


THE  FALLEN  KING  333 

yet  had  stood  by  him  until  further  fidelity  would 
have  ruined  himself,  would  not  have  saved  Du 
mont,  or  prevented  the  Herron-Cassell  raiders 
from  getting  control.  Now  that  he  could  afford 
to  look  at  his  revenge-books  he  was  deeply  re 
senting  the  insults  and  indignities  heaped  upon 
him  in  the  past  five  years.  But  he  was  unable 
to  gloat,  was  moved  to  pity,  at  sight  of  the  phy 
sical  and  mental  wreck  in.  that  chair  which  he 
had  always  seen  occupied  by  the  most  robust 
of  despots. 

"Well/'  said  Dumont  in  a  dull,  far-away  voice, 
without  looking  at  him.  "What's  happened?" 

Giddings  cast  about  for  a  smooth  beginning 
but  couid  find  none.  "They  did  us  up — that's 
all,"  he  said  funereally. 

Dumont  lifted  himself  into  a  momentary  sem 
blance  of  his  old  look  and  manner.  "You  lie, 
damn  you!"  he  shouted,  his  mouth  raw  and 
ragged  as  a  hungry  tiger's. 

Giddings  began  to  cringe,  remembered  the 
changed  conditions,  bounded  to  his  feet. 

"I'll  tolerate  such  language  from  no  man!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  wish  you  good  morning,  sir !" 
And  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

"Come  back!"  commanded  Dumont.     And 


334  THE  COST 

Giddings,  the  habit  of  implicit  obedience  to  that 
voice  still  strong  upon  him,  hesitated  and  half 
turned. 

Dumont  was  more  impressed  with  the  truth 
of  the  cataclysm  by  Giddings'  revolt  than  by 
the  newspaper  head-lines  or  by  Giddings'  words. 
And  from  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  his  re 
serve-self  he  summoned  the  last  of  his  coolness 
and  self-control.  "Beg  pardon,  Giddings,"  said 
he.  "You  see  I'm  not  well." 

Giddings  returned — he  had  taken  orders  all 
his  life,  he  had  submitted  to  this  master  slavish 
ly;  the  concession  of  an  apology  mollified  him 
and  flattered  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  he  said,  seating  him 
self  again.  "As  I  was  saying,  the  raid  was  a 
success.  I  did  the  best  I  could.  Some  called 
our  loans  and  some  demanded  more  collateral. 
And  while  I  was  fighting  front  and  rear  and 
both  sides,  bang  came  that  lie  about  your  con 
dition.  The  market  broke.  All  I  could  do  was 
sell,  sell,  sell,  to  try  to  meet  or  protect  our 
loans." 

Giddings  heard  a  sound  that  made  him  glance 
at  Dumont.  His  head  had  fallen  forward  and 


THE  FALLEN  KING  335 

he  was  snoring.  Giddings  looked  long  and  pity 
ingly. 

"A  sure  enough  dead  one,"  he  muttered,  un< 
consciously  using  the  slang  of  the  Street  which 
he  habitually  avoided.  And  he  went  away,  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

After  half  an  hour  Dumont  roused  himself — 
out  of  a  stupor  into  a  half-delirious  dream. 
"Must  get  cash,"  he  mumbled,  "and  look  after 
the  time  loans."  He  lifted  his  head  and  pushed 
back  his  hair  from  his  hot  forehead.  "I'll  stamp 
on  those  curs  yet!" 

He  took  another  drink — his  hands  were  so  un 
steady  that  he  had  to  use  both  of  them  in  lifting 
it  to  his  lips.  He  put  the  flask  in  his  pocket  in 
stead  of  returning  it  to  the  drawer.  No  one 
spoke  to  him,  all  pretended  not  to  see  him  as  he 
passed  through  the  offices  on  his  way  to  the  ele 
vator.  With  glassy  unseeing  eyes  he  fumbled  at 
the  dash-board  and  side  of  the  hansom;  with  a 
groan  like  a  rheumatic  old  man's  he  lifted  his 
heavy  body  up  into  the  seat,  dropped  back  and 
fell  asleep.  A  crowd  of  clerks  and  messengers, 
newsboys  and  peddlers  gathered  and  gaped,  awed 
as  they  looked  at  the  man  who  had  been  for  five 


336  THE  COST 

years  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Street,  and  thought 
of  his  dazzling  catastrophe. 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  a  new-comer, 
apparently  a  tourist,  edging  his  way  into  the  out 
skirts  of  the  crowd. 

"That's  Dumont,  the  head  of  the  Woolens 
Trust,"  the  curb-broker  he  addressed  replied  in 
a  low  tone.  "He  was  raided  yesterday — woke  up 
in  the  morning  worth  a  hundred  millions,  went 
to  bed  worth — perhaps  five,  maybe  nothing  at 
all." 

At  this  exaggeration  of  the  height  and  depth 
of  the  disaster,  awe  and  sympathy  became  intense 
in  that  cluster  of  faces.  A  hundred  millions  to 
nothing  at  all,  or  at  most  a  beggarly  five  millions 
— what  a  dizzy  precipice !  Great  indeed  must  be 
'he  who  could  fall  so  far.  The  driver  peered 
through  the  trap,  wondering  why  his  distin 
guished  fare  endured  this  vulgar  scrutiny.  He 
saw  that  Durr.ont  was  asleep,  thrust  down  a  hand 
and  shook  him.  "Where  to,  sir?"  he  asked,  as 
Dumont  straightened  himself. 

"To  the  National  Industrial  Bank,  you  fool," 
snapped  Dumont.  "How  many  times  must  I  tell 
you?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  driver — without  sar- 


THE  FALLEN  KING  337 

casm,  thinking  steadfastly  of  his  pay — and  drove 
swiftly  away. 

Theretofore,  whenever  he  had  gone  to  the  Na 
tional  Industrial  Bank  he  had  been  received  as 
one  king  is  received  by  another.  Either  eager  and 
obsequious  high  officers  of  King  Melville  had 
escorted  him  directly  to  the  presence,  or  King  Mel 
ville,  because  he  had  a  caller  who  could  not  be 
summarily  dismissed,  had  come  out  apologetically 
to  conduct  King  Dumont  to  another  audience 
chamber.  That  day  the  third  assistant  cashier 
greeted  him  with  politeness  carefully  graded  to 
the  due  of  a  man  merely  moderately  rich  and  not 
a  factor  in  the  game  of  high  finance. 

"Be  seated,  Mr.  Dumont,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
a  chair  just  inside  the  railing — a  seat  not  un 
worthy  of  a  man  of  rank  in  the  plutocratic 
hierarchy,  but  a  man  of  far  from  high  rank.  "I'll 
see  whether  Mr.  Melville's  disengaged." 

Dumont  dropped  into  the  chair  and  his  heavy 
head  was  almost  immediately  resting  upon  his 
shirt-bosom.  The  third  assistant  cashier  re 
turned,  roused  him  somewhat  impatiently.  "Mr. 
Melville's  engaged,"  said  he.  "But  Mr.  Cowles 
will  see  you."  Mr.  Cowles  was  the  third  vice- 
president. 


THE  COST 

Dumont  rose.  The  blood  flushed  into  his  face 
and  his  body  shook  from  head  to  foot.  "Tell 
Melville  to  go  to  hell,"  he  jerked  out,  the  haze 
clearing  for  a  moment  from  his  piercing,  wicked 
eyes.  And  he  stalked  through  the  gateway  in  the 
railing.  He  turned.  "Tell  him  I'll  tear  him  down 
and  grind  him  into  the  gutter  within  six  months." 

In  the  hansom  again,  he  reflected  or  tried  to 
reflect.  But  the  lofty  buildings  seemed  to  cast 
a  black  shadow  on  his  mind,  and  the  roar  and 
rush  of  the  tremendous  tide  of  traffic  through  that 
deep  canon  set  his  thoughts  to  whirling  like 
drink-maddened  bacchanals  dancing  round  a 
punch-bowl.  "That  woman!"  he  exclaimed  sud 
denly.  "What  asses  they  make  of  us  men!  And 
all  these  vultures — I'm  not  carrion  yet.  But  they 
soon  will  be !"  And  he  laughed  and  his  thoughts 
began  their  crazy  spin  again. 

A  newsboy  came,  waving  an  extra  in  at  the 
open  doors  of  the  hansom.  "Dumont's  down 
fall!"  he  yelled  in  his  shrill,  childish  voice.  "All 
about  the  big  smash!" 

Dumont  snatched  a  paper  and  flung  a  copper 
at  the  boy. 

"Gimme  a  tip  on  Woolens,  Mr.  Dumont,"  said 


THE  FALLEN  KING  339 

the  boy,  with  an  impudent  grin,  balancing  himself 
for  flight.  "How's  Mrs.  Fanshaw?" 

The  newspapers  had  made  his  face  as  familiar 
as  the  details  of  his  private  life.  He  shrank  and 
quivered.  He  pushed  up  the  trap.  "Home !"  he 
said,  forgetting  that  the  hansom  and  driver  were 
not  his  own. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Dumont!"  replied  the  driver. 
Dumont  shrank  again  and  sat  cowering  in  the 
corner — the  very  calling  him  by  his  name,  now  a 
synonym  for  failure,  disgrace,  ridicule  and  con 
tempt,  seemed  a  subtile  insult. 

With  roaring  brain  and  twitching,  dizzy  eyes 
he  read  at  the  newspaper's  account  of  his  over 
throw.  And  gradually  there  formed  in  his  mind 
a  coherent  notion  of  how  it  had  come  to  pass, 
of  its  extent;  of  why  he  found  himself  lying  in 
the  depths,  the  victim  of  humiliations  so  frightful 
that  they  penetrated  even  to  him,  stupefied  and 
crazed  with  drink  and  fever  though  he  was.  His 
courage,  his  self-command  were  burnt  up  by  the 
brandy.  His  body  had  at  last  revolted,  was  hav 
ing  its  terrible  revenge  upon  the  mind  that  had 
so  long  misused  it  in  every  kind  of  indulgence. 

"I'm  done  for — done  for,"  he  repeated  audibly 
again  and  again,  at  each  repetition  looking  round 


340  THE  COST 

mentally  for  a  fact  or  a  hope  that  would  deny 
this  assertion — but  he  cast  about  in  vain.  "Yes, 
I'm  done  for."  And  flinging  away  the  newspaper 
he  settled  back  and  ceased  to  try  to  think  of  his 
affairs.  After  a  while  tears  rolled  from  under  his 
blue  eyelids,  dropped  haltingly  down  his  cheeks, 
spread  out  upon  his  lips,  tasted  salt  in  his  half- 
open  mouth. 

The  hansom  stopped  before  his  brick  and 
marble  palace.  The  butler  hurried  out  and  helped 
him  alight — not  yet  thirty-seven,  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  a  dying  old  man.  "Pay  the  cabby,"  he  said 
and  groped  his  way  into  the  house  and  to  the 
elevator  and  mechanically  ran  himself  up  to  his 
floor.  His  valet  was  in  his  dressing-room.  He 
waved  him  away.  "Get  out !  And  don't  disturb 
me  till  I  ring." 

"The  doctor—"  began  Mallow. 

"Do  as  I  tell  you!" 

When  he  was  alone  he  poured  out  brandy  and 
gulped  it  down — a  drink  that  might  have  eaten 
the  lining  straight  out  of  a  stomach  less  power 
ful  than  his.  He  went  from  door  to  door,  lock 
ing  them  all.  Then  he  seated  himself  in  a  loung- 
ing-chair  before  the  long  mirror.  He  stared  to 
ward  the  image  of  himself  but  was  so  dim-eyed 


THE  FALLEN  KING  341 

that  he  could  see  nothing  but  spinning  black 
disks.  "Life's  not  such  a  good  game  even  when 
a  man's  winning,"  he  said  aloud.  "A  rotten  bad 
game  when  he's  losing." 

His  head  wabbled  to  fall  forward  but  he  roused 
himself.  "Wife  gone— "  The  tears  flooded 
his  eyes — tears  of  pity  for  himself,  an  injured 
and  abandoned  husband.  "Wife  gone,"  he  re 
peated.  "Friends  gone — "  He  laughed  sar 
donically.  "No,  never  had  friends,  thank  God, 
err  I  shouldn't  have  lasted  this  long.  No  such 
thing  as  friends — a  man  gets  what  he  can  pay 
for.  Grip  gone — luck  gone!  What's  the  use?" 

He  dozed  off,  presently  to  start  into  acute, 
shuddering  consciousness.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  stirring,  slowly  oozing  from  under  the 
divan  was  a — a  Thing!  He  could  not  define  its 
shape,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  vast,  that  it  was 
scaly,  with  many  short  fat  legs  tipped  with  claws ; 
that  its  color  was  green,  that  its  purpose  was  hid 
eous,  gleaming  in  craft  from  large,  square,  green- 
yellow  eyes.  He  wiped  the  sticky  sweat  from  his 
brow.  "It's  only  the  brandy,"  he  said  loudly,  and 
the  Thing  faded,  vanished.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief. 

He  went  to  a  case  of  drawers  and  stood  before 


342  THE  COST 

it,  supporting  himself  by  the  handles  of  the  sec 
ond  drawer.  "Yes,"  he  reflected,  "the  revolver's 
in  that  drawer."  He  released  the  handles  and 
staggered  back  to  his  chair.  "I'm  crazy,"  he  mut 
tered,  "crazy  as  a  loon.  I  ought  to  ring  for  the 
doctor." 

In  a  moment  he  was  up  again,  but  instead  of 
going  toward  the  bell  he  went  to  the  drawers  and 
opened  the  second  one.  In  a  compartment  lay  a 
pearl-handled,  self-cocking  revolver.  He  put  his 
hand  on  it,  shivered,  drew  his  hand  away — the 
steel  and  the  pearl  were  cold.  He  closed  the 
drawer  with  a  quick  push,  opened  it  again  slowly, 
took  up  the  revolver,  staggered  over  to  his  desk 
and  laid  it  there.  His  face  was  chalk-white  in 
spots  and  his  eyes  were  stiff  in  their  sockets.  He 
rested  his  aching,  burning,  reeling  head  on  his 
hands  and  stared  at  the  revolver. 

"But,"  he  said  aloud,  as  if  contemptuously  dis 
missing  a  suggestion,  "why  should  I  shoot  my 
self?  I  can  smash  'em  all — to  powder — grind  'em 
into  the  dirt." 

He  took  up  the  revolver.  "What'd  be  the  use 
of  smashing  'em  ?"  he  said  wearily.  He  felt  tired 
and  sick,  horribly  sick. 

He  laid  it  down.     "I'd  better  be  careful,"  he 


THE  FALLEN  KING  343 

thought.     "I'm  not  in  my  right  mind.     I  might 
)> 

He  took  it  in  his  hand  and  went  to  the  mirror 
and  put  the  muzzle  against  his  temple.  He 
laughed  crazily.  "A  little  pressure  on  that  trig 
ger  and — bang!  I'd  be  in  kingdom  come  and 
shouldn't  give  a  damn  for  anybody."  He  caught 
sight  of  his  eyes  in  the  mirror  and  hastily  dropped 
his  arm  to  his  side.  "No,  I'd  never  shoot  myself 
in  the  temple.  The  heart'd  be  better.  Just  here" 
— and  he  pressed  the  muzzle  into  the  soft  material 
of  his  coat — "if  I  touched  the  trigger — " 

And  his  ringer  did  touch  the  trigger.  Pains 
shot  through  his  chest  like  cracks  radiating  in 
glass  when  a  stone  strikes  it.  He  looked  at  his 
face — white,  with  wild  eyes,  with  lips  blue  and 
ajar,  the  sweat  streaming  from  his  forehead. 
"What  have  I  done?"  he  shrieked,  mad  with  the 
dread  of  death.  "I  must  call  for  help."  He 
turned  toward  the  door,  plunged  forward,  fell 
unconscious,  the  revolver  flung  half-way  across 
the  room. 

When  he  came  to  his  senses  he  was  in  his  bed 
— comfortable,  weak,  lazy.  With  a  slight  effort 
he  caught  the  thread  V  :vents.  He  turned  his 


THE  COST 

eyes  and  saw  a  nurse,  seated  at  the  head  of  his 
bed,  reading.  "Am  I  going  to  die?"  he  asked 
• — his  voice  was  thin  and  came  in  faint  gusts. 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  the  nurse,  putting 
down  her  book  and  standing  over  him,  her  face 
showing  genuine  reassurance  and  cheerfulness. 
"You'll  be  well  very  soon.  But  you  must  lie 
quiet  and  not  talk." 

"Was  it  a  bad  wound?" 

"The  fever  was  the  worst.  The  bullet  glanced 
round  just  under  the  surface." 

"It  was  an  accident,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "I  suppose  everybody  is  saying  I  tried 
to  kill  myself." 

"  'Everybody'  doesn't  know  anything  about  it. 
Almost  nobody  knows.  Even  the  servants  don't 
know.  Your  secretary  sent  them  away,  broke  in 
and  found  you." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  slept. 

When  he  awoke  again  he  felt  that  a  long  time 
had  passed,  that  he  was  much  better,  that  he  was 
hungry.  "Nurse!"  he  called. 

The  woman  at  the  head  of  the  bed  rose  and  laid 
a  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead.  "How  good  that 
feels,"  he  mumbled  gratefully.  "What  nice  hands 
you  have,  nurse,"  and  he  lifted  his  glance  to  her- 


THE  FALLEN  KING  345 

face.  He  stared  wonderingly,  confusedly.  "I 
thought  I  was  awake  and  almost  well,"  he  mur 
mured.  "And  instead,  I'm  out  of  my  head." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  It  certainly  was 
her  voice. 

"Is  it  you,  Pauline?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  feared 
a  negative  answer. 

-Yes— John." 

A  long  silence,  then  he  said:  "Why  did  you 
come?" 

"The  doctor  wrote  me  that — wrote  me  the 
truth." 

"But  haven't  you  heard  ?  Haven't  you  seen  the 
papers?  Don't  they  say  I'm  ruined?" 

"Yes,  John." 

He  lay  silent  for  several  minutes.  Then  he 
asked  hesitatingly:  "And — when — do  you — go 
back— West?" 

"I  have  come  to  stay,"  she  replied.  Neither  in 
her  voice  nor  in  her  face  was  there  a  hint  of  what 
those  five  words  meant  to  her. 

He  closed  his  eyes  again.  Presently  a  tear  slid 
from  under  each  lid  and  stood  in  the  deep,  wasted 
hollows  of  his  eye-sockets. 


XXVI. 

A  DESPERATE  RALLY. 

When  he  awoke  again  he  felt  that  he  should 
get  well  rapidly.  He  was  weak,  but  it  seemed  the 
weakness  of  hunger  rather  than  of  illness.  His 
head  was  clear,  his  nerves  tranquil ;  his  mind  was 
as  hungry  for  action  as  his  body  was  for  food. 

"As  soon  as  I've  had  something  to  eat,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "I'll  be  better  than  for  years.  I  needed 
this."  And  straightway  he  began  to  take  hold 
of  the  outside  world. 

"Are  you  there,  Pauline?"  he  asked,  after  per 
haps  half  an  hour  during  which  his  mind  had 
swiftly  swept  the  whole  surface  of  his  affairs, 

The  nurse  rose  from  the  lounge  across  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  "Your  wife  was  worn  out,  Mr.  Du- 
mont,"  she  began.  "She  has — " 

"What  day  is  it?"  he  interrupted. 

"Thursday." 

"Of  the  month,  I  mean." 

"The  seventeenth,"  she  answered,  smiling  in 
anticipation  of  his  astonishment. 

But  he   said   without   change  of  expression, 

346 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  347 

r  "Then  I've  been  ill  three  weeks  and  three  days. 
Tell  Mr.  Culver  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once." 

"But  the  doctor—" 

"Damn  the  doctor,"  replied  Dumont,  good-na 
turedly.  "Don't  irritate  me  by  opposing.  I 
shan't  talk  with  Culver  a  minute  by  the  clock. 
What  I  say  will  put  my  mind  at  rest.  Then  I'll 
eat  something  and  sleep  for  a  day  at  least." 

The  nurse  hesitated,  but  his  eyes  fairly  forced 
her  out  of  the  room  to  fetch  Culver.  "Now  re 
member,  Mr.  Dumont — less  than  a  minute,"  she 
said.  "I'll  come  back  in  just  sixty  seconds." 

"Come  in  forty,"  he  replied.  When  she  had 
closed  the  door  he  said  to  Culver :  "What  are  the 
quotations  on  Woolens?" 

"Preferred  twenty-eight;  Common  seven,"  an 
swered  Culver.  "They've  been  about  steady  for 
two  weeks." 

"Good.    And  what's  Great  Lakes  and  Gulf?" 

Culver  showed  his  surprise.  "I'll  have  to  con 
sult  the  paper,"  he  said.  "You  never  asked  me 
for  that  quotation  before.  I'd  no  idea  you'd  want 
it."  He  went  to  the  next  room  and  immediately 
returned.  "G.  L.  and  G.  one  hundred  and  two." 

Dumont  smiled  with  a  satisfied  expression. 
"Now — go  down-town — what  time  is  it?" 


348  THE  COST 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"Morning?" 

"Yes,  sir,  morning." 

"Go  down-town  at  once  and  set  expert  account 
ants — get  Evarts  and  Schuman — set  them  at 
work  on  my  personal  accounts  with  the  Woolens 
Company.  Tell  everybody  I'm  expected  to  die, 
and  know  it,  and  am  getting  facts  for  making 
my  will.  And  stay  down-town  yourself  all  day 
— find  out  everything  you  can  about  National 
Woolens  and  that  raiding  crowd  and  about  Great 
Lakes  and  Gulf.  The  better  you  succeed  in  this 
mission  the  better  it'll  be  for  you.  Thank  you, 
by  the  way,  for  keeping  my  accident  quiet.  Find 
out  how  the  Fanning-Smiths  are  carrying  Na 
tional  Woolens.  Find  out — " 

The  door  opened  and  the  plain,  clean  figure  of 
the  nurse  appeared.  "The  minute's  up,"  she  said. 

"One  second  more,  please.  Close  the  door." 
When  she  had  obeyed  he  went  on :  "See  Tavis- 
tock — you  know  you  must  be  careful  not  to  let 
any  one  at  his  office  know  that  you're  connected 
with  me.  See  him — ask  him — no,  telephone 
Tavistock  to  come  at  once — and  you  find  out  all 
you  can  independently — especially  about  the  Fan- 
ningrSmiths  and  Great  Lakes  and  Gulf." 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  349 

"Very  well,"  said  Culver. 

"A  great  deal  depends  on  your  success,"  con 
tinued  Dumont — "a  great  deal  for  me,  a  great 
deal — a  very  great  deal  for  you." 

His  look  met  Culver's  and  each  seemed  satis 
fied  with  what  he  saw.  Then  Culver  went,  say 
ing  to  himself:  "What  makes  him  think  the 
Fanning-Smiths  were  mixed  up  in  the  raid  ?  And 
what  on  earth  has  G.  L.  and  G.  got  to  do  with 
it?  Gad,  he's  a  zvonder!"  The  longer  Culver 
lived  in  intimacy  with  Dumont  the  greater  became 
to  him  the  mystery  of  his  combination  of  bigness 
and  littleness,  audacity  and  caution,  devil  and 
man.  "It  gets  me,"  he  often  reflected,  "how  a 
man  can  plot  to  rob  millions  of  people  in  one  hour 
and  in  the  next  plan  endowments  for  hospitals 
and  colleges;  despise  public  opinion  one  minute 
and  the  next  be  courting  it  like  an  actor.  But 
that's  the  way  with  all  these  big  fellows.  And 
I'll  know  how  to  do  it  when  I  get  to  be  one  of 
'em." 

As  the  nurse  reentered  Dumont's  bedroom  he 
called  out,  lively  as  a  boy :  "Something  to  eat ! 
'Anything  to  eat !  Everything  to  eat !" 

The  nurse  at  first  flatly  refused  to  admit  Tavis- 


350  THE  COST 

tock.  But  at  half-past  nine  he  entered,  tall,  lean, 
lithe,  sharp  of  face,  shrewd  of  eye,  rakish  of  mus 
tache  ;  by  Dumont's  direction  he  closed  and  locked 
the  door.  "Why!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  don't  look 
much  of  a  sick  man.  You're  thin,  but  your  color's 
not  bad  and  your  eyes  are  clear.  And  down-town 
they  have  you  dying." 

Dumont  laughed.  Tavistock  instantly  recog 
nized  in  laugh  and  look  Dumont's  battle  expres 
sion.  "Dying — yes.  Dying  to  get  at  'em. 
Tavistock,  we'll  kick  those  fellows  out  of  Wall 
Street  before  the  middle  of  next  week.  How 
much  Great  Lakes  is  there  floating  on  the 
market?" 

Tavistock  looked  puzzled.  He  had  expected  to 
talk  National  Woolens,  and  this  man  did  not  even 
speak  of  it,  seemed  absorbed  in  a  stock  in  which 
Tavistock  did  not  know  he  had  any  interest  what 
ever.  "G.  L.  and  G.?"  he  said.  "Not  much— 
perhaps  thirty  thousand  shares.  It's  been  quiet 
for  a  long  time.  It's  an  investment  stock,  yot" 
know." 

Dumont  smiled  peculiarly.  "I  want  a  list  of 
the  stock-holders — not  all,  only  those  holding 
more  than  a  thousand  shares." 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  351 

'There  aren't  many  big  holders.  Most  of  the 
stock's  in  small  lots  in  the  middle  West." 

"So  much  the  better." 

"I'm  pretty  sure  I  can  get  you  a  fairly  accurate 
list." 

Tavistock,  Dumont's  very  private  and  personal 
broker,  had  many  curious  ways  of  reaching  into 
the  carefully  guarded  books  and  other  business 
secrets  of  brokers  and  of  the  enterprises  listed  on 
the  New  York  Stock  Exchange.  He  and  Dumont 
had  long  worked  together  in  the  speculative  parts 
of  Dumont's  schemes.  Dumont  was  the  chief 
source  of  his  rapidly  growing  fortune,  though  no 
one  except  Culver,  not  even  Mrs.  Tavistock,  knew 
that  they  had  business  relations.  Dumont  moved 
through  Tavistock  secretly,  and  Tavistock  in  turn 
moved  through  other  agents  secretly.  But  for 
such  precautions  as  these  the  great  men  of  Wall 
Street  would  be  playing  with  all  the  cards  ex 
posed  for  the  very  lambs  to  cock  their  ears  at. 

"I  want  it  immediately,"  said  Dumont.  "Only 
the  larger  holders,  you  understand." 

"Haste  always  costs.  I'll  have  to  get  hold  of 
a  man  who  can  get  hold  of  some  one  high  up  in 
the  Great  Lakes  dividend  department." 


352  THE  COST 

"Pay  what  you  must — ten — twenty  thousand—* 
more  if  necessary.  But  get  it  to-night !" 

"I'll  try." 

"Then  you'll  get  it." 

He  slept,  with  a  break  of  fifteen  minutes,  until 
ten  the  next  morning.  Then  Tavistock  appeared 
with  the  list.  "It  was  nearly  midnight  before  my 
man  could  strike  a  bargain,  so  I  didn't  telephone 
you.  The  dividend  clerk  made  a  memory  list.  I 
had  him  verify  it  this  morning  as  early  as  he  could 
get  at  the  books.  He  says  at  least  a  third  of 
the  road  is  held  in  small  lots  abroad.  He's  been 
in  charge  of  the  books  for  twenty  years,  and  he 
says  there  have  been  more  changes  in  the  last  two 
months  than  in  all  that  time.  He  thinks  some 
body  has  sold  a  big  block  of  the  stock  on  the 
quiet." 

Dumont  smiled  significantly.  "I  think  I  under 
stand  that,"  he  said.  He  glanced  at  the  list.  "It's 
even  shorter  than  I  thought." 

"You  notice,  one-third  of  the  stock's  tied  up  in 
the  Wentworth  estate,"  said  Tavistock. 

"Yes.  And  here's  the  name  of  Bowen's  divi 
dend  clerk.  Bowen  is  traveling  in  the  far  East. 
Probably  he's  left  no  orders  about  his  Great 
Lakes — why  should  he  when  it's  supposed  to  be 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  35a 

as  sound  and  steady  as  Government  bonds  ?  That 
means  another  fifty  thousand  shares  out  of  the 
way  for  our  purposes.  Which  of  these  names 
stand  for  the  Fanning-Smiths?" 

"I  only  recognize  Scannell — James  Fanning- 
Smith's  private  secretary.  But  there  must  be 
others,  as  he's  down  for  only  twenty-one  thousand 
shares." 

"Then  he's  the  only  one,"  said  Dumont,  "for 
the  Fanning-Smiths  have  only  twenty-one  thou 
sand  shares  at  the  present  time.  I  know  that  pos 
itively/' 

"What!"  Tavistock  showed  that  he  was 
astounded.  "I  knew  James  Fanning-Smith  was 
an  ass,  but  I  never  suspected  him  of  such  folly 
as  that.  So  they  are  the  ones  that  have  been  sell- 
ing?" 

"Yes — not  only  selling  what  they  owned  but 
also —  However,  no  matter.  It's  safe  to  say 
there  are  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
shares  for  us  to  take  care  of.  I  want  you  to  get 
me — right  away — options  for  fifteen  days  on  as 
many  of  these  remaining  big  lots  as  possible. 
Make  the  best  terms  you  can — anything  up  to 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five — and  offer  five  or 
even  ten  dollars  a  share  forfeit  for  the  option* 


354  THE  COST 

Make  bigger  offers — fifteen — where  it's  neces 
sary.  Set  your  people  to  work  at  once.  They've 
got  the  rest  of  to-day,  all  day  to-morrow,  all  day 
Sunday.  But  I'd  rather  the  whole  thing  were 
closed  up  by  Saturday  night.  I'll  be  satisfied 
when  you've  got  me  control  of  a  hundred  thou 
sand  shares — that'll  be  the  outside  of  safety." 

"Yes,  you're  reasonably  sure  to  win,  if  you  can 
carry  that  and  look  after  offerings  of  fifty  thou 
sand  in  the  market.  The  options  on  the  hundred 
thousand  shares  oughtn't  to  cost  you  much  more 
than  a  million.  The  fifty  thousand  you'll  have  to 
buy  in  the  market  may  cost  you  six  or  seven  mil 
lions."  Tavistock  recited  these  figures  carelessly. 
In  reality  he  was  watching  Dumont  shrewdly,  for 
he  had  believed  that  the  National  Woolens  raid 
had  ruined  him,  had  certainly  put  him  out  of  the 
large  Wall  Street  moves. 

"In  that  small  drawer,  to  the  left,  in  the  desk 
there,"  said  Dumont,  pointing.  "Bring  me  the 
Inter-State  National  check-book,  and  pen  and 
ink." 

When  he  had  the  book  he  wrote  eight  checks, 
the  first  for  fifty  thousand,  the  next  five  for  one 
hundred  thousand  each,  the  last  two  for  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  thousand  each.  "The  first  check," 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  355 

he  said,  "you  may  use  whenever  you  like.  The 
others,  except  the  last  two,  will  be  good  after  two 
o'clock  to-day.  The  last  two  can  be  used  any 
time  after  eleven  to-morrow.  And — don't  for 
get  !  I'm  supposed  to  be  hopelessly  ill — but  then, 
no  one  must  know  you've  seen  me  or  know  any 
thing  about  me.  Spread  it  as  a  rumor." 

Tavistock  went  away  convinced,  enthusiastic. 
There  was  that  in  Dumont  which  inspired  men  to 
their  strongest,  most  intelligent  efforts.  He  was 
harsh,  he  was  tyrannical,  treacherous  even — in  a 
large  way,  often  cynically  ungrateful.  But  he 
knew  how  to  lead,  knew  how  to  make  men  forget 
all  but  the  passion  for  victory,  and  follow  him 
loyally.  Tavistock  had  seen  his  financial  brain 
solve  too  many  "unsolvable"  problems  not  to  have 
confidence  in  it. 

"I  might  have  known!"  he  reflected.  "Why, 
those  fellows  apparently  only  scotched  him.  They 
got  the  Woolens  Company  away  from  him.  He 
lets  it  go  without  a  murmur  when  he  sees  he's 
beaten,  and  he  turns  his  mind  to  grabbing  a  big 
railway  as  if  Woolens  had  never  existed." 

Just  after  his  elevated  train  passed  Chatham 
Square  on  the  way  down-town  Tavistock  sud- 
idenly  slapped  his  leg  with  noisy  energy  and  ex- 


356  THE  COST 

claimed  half-aloud,  "By  Jove,  of  course  I"  to  the 
amusement  of  those  near  him  in  the  car.  He 
went  on  to  himself:  "Why  didn't  I  see  it  be 
fore?  Because  it's  so  beautifully  simple,  like  all 
the  things  the  big  'uns  do.  He's  a  wonder.  So 
that's  what  he's  up  to?  Gad,  what  a  breeze 
there'll  be  next  week !" 

At  eleven  o'clock  Doctor  Sackett  came  into 
Dumont's  bedroom,  in  arms  against  his  patient. 

"You're  acting  like  a  lunatic.  No  business,  I 
say — not  for  a  week.  Absolute  quiet,  Mr.  Du 
mont,  or  I'll  not  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"I  see  you  want  to  drive  me  back  into  the 
fever,"  replied  Dumont.  "But  I'm  bent  on  gek 
ting  well.  I  need  the  medicine  I've  had  this  morn 
ing,  and  Culver's  bringing  me  another  dose.  If 
I'm  not  better  when  he  kaves,  I  agree  to  try  your 
prescription  of  fret  and  fume." 

"You  are  risking  your  life." 

Dumont  smiled.  "Possibly.  But  I'm  risking 
it  for  what's  more  than  life  to  me,  my  dear 
Sackett." 

"You'll  excite  yourself.     You'll " 

"On  the  contrary,  I  shall  calm  myself.  I'm 
never  so  calm  and  cheerful  as  when  I'm  fighting, 
unless  it's  when  I'm  getting  ready  to  fight 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  357 

There's  something  inside  me — I  don't  know  what 
— but  it  won't  let  me  rest  till  it  has  pushed  me  into 
action.  That's  my  nature.  If  any  one  asks  how 
I  am,  say  you've  no  hope  of  my  recovery." 

"I  shall  tell  only  the  truth  in  that  case,"  said 
Sackett,  but  with  resignation — he  was  beginning 
to  believe  that  for  his  extraordinary  patient  ex 
traordinary  remedies  might  be  best. 

Dumont  listened  to  Culver's  report  without 
interrupting  him  once.  Culver's  position  had 
theretofore  been  most  disadvantageous  to  himself. 
He  had  been  too  near  to  Dumont,  had  been  merg 
ed  in  Dumont's  big  personality.  Whatever  he 
did  well  seemed  to  Dumont  merely  the  direct 
reflection  of  his  own  abilities ;  whatever  he  did  ill 
seemed  far  more  stupid  than  a  similar  blunder 
made  by  a  less  intimate  subordinate — what  ex 
cuse  for  Culver's  going  wrong  with  the  guiding 
hand  of  the  Great  Man  always  upon  him? 

In  this,  his  first  important  independent  assign 
ment,  he  had  at  last  an  opportunity  to  show  his 
master  what  he  could  do,  to  show  that  he  had  not 
learned  the  Dumont  methods  parrot-fashion,  but 
intelligently,  that  he  was  no  mere  reflecting  aste 
roid  to  the  Dumont  sun,  but  a  self-himinous,  if 
lesser  and  dependent,  star. 


358  THE  COST 

Dumont  was  in  a  peculiarly  appreciative  mood. 
"Why,  the  fellow's  got  brains — good  brains,"  was 
his  inward  comment  again  and  again  as  Culver 
unfolded  the  information  he  had  collected — clear, 
accurate,  non-essentials  discarded,  essentials  given 
in  detail,  hidden  points  brought  to  the  surface. 

It  was  proof  positive  of  Dumont's  profound 
indifference  to  money  that  he  listened  without  any 
emotion  either  of  anger  or  of  regret  to  the  first 
part  of  Culver's  tale,  the  survey  of  the  wreck — 
what  had  been  forty  millions  now  reduced  to  a 
dubious  six.  Dumont  had  neither  time  nor 
strength  for  emotion;  he  was  using  all  his  men 
tality  in  gaging  what  he  had  for  the  work  in 
hand — just  how  long  and  how  efficient  was  the 
broken  sword  with  which  he  must  face  his  ene 
mies  in  a  struggle  that  meant  utter  ruin  to  him 
if  he  failed.  For  he  felt  that  if  he  should  fail 
he  would  never  again  be  able  to  gather  himself 
together  to  renew  the  combat;  either  he  would 
die  outright  or  he  would  abandon  himself  to  the 
appetite  which  had  just  shown  itself  dangerously 
near  to  being  the  strongest  of  the  several  passions 
ruling  him. 

When  Culver  passed  to  the  Herron  coterie  and 
the  Fanning-Smiths  and  Great  Lakes  and  Gulf, 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  359 

Dumont  was  still  motionless — he  was  now  esti 
mating  the  strength  and  the  weaknesses  of  the 
enemy,  and  miscalculation  would  be  fatal.  At  the 
end  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour  Culver  stopped 
the  steady,  swift  flow  of  his  report — 'That's  all 
the  important  facts.  There's  a  lot  more  but  it 
would  be  largely  repetition." 

Dumont  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  that 
made  him  proud.  "Thanks,  Culver.  At  the  next 
annual  meeting  we'll  elect  you  to  Giddings'  place. 
Please  go  back  down-town  and — "  He  rapidly 
indicated  half  a  dozen  points  which  Culver  had 
failed  to  see  and  investigate — the  best  subordinate 
has  not  the  master's  eye ;  if  he  had,  he  would  not 
be  a  subordinate. 

Dumont  waved  his  hand  in  dismissal  and  settled 
himself  to  sleep.  When  Culver  began  to  stammer 
thanks  for  the  promised  promotion,  he  frowned. 

"Don't  bother  me  with  that  sort  of  stuff.  The 
job's  yours  because  you've  earned  it.  It'll  be  yours 
as  long  as  you  can  hold  it  down — or  until  you 
earn  a  better  one.  And  you'll  be  loyal  as 
Giddings  was — just  as  long  as  it's  to  your  interest 
and  not  a  second  longer.  Otherwise  you'd  be  a 
fool,  and  I'd  not  have  you  about  me.  Be  off !" 

He  slept  an  hour   and   a   half,  then  Pauline 


360  THE  COST 

brought  him  a  cup  of  beef  extract — "A  very  small 
cup,"  he  grumbled  good-humoredly.  "And  a 
very  weak,  watery  mess  in  it." 

As  he  lay  propped  in  his  bed  drinking  it — 
slowly  to  make  it  last  the  longer — Pauline  sat 
looking  at  him.  His  hands  had  been  fat  and 
puffy;  she  was  filled  with  pity  as  she  watched  the 
almost  scrawny  hand  holding  the  cup  to  his  lips ; 
there  were  hollows  between  the  tendons,  and  the 
wrist  wras  gaunt.  Her  gaze  wandered  to  his  face 
and  rested  there,  in  sympathy  and  tenderness. 
The  ravages  of  the  fever  had  been  frightful — 
hollows  where  the  swollen,  sensual  cheeks  had 
been ;  the  neck  caved  in  behind  and  under  the  jaw 
bones;  loose  skin  hanging  in  wattles,  deeply-set 
eyes,  a  pinched  look  about  the  nostrils  and  the 
corners  of  the  mouth.  He  was  homely,  ugly 
even ;  except  the  noble  curve  of  head  and  profile, 
not  a  trace  of  his  former  good  looks — but  at  least 
that  swinish,  fleshy,  fleshly  expression  was  gone. 

A  physical  wreck,  battered,  torn,  dismantled 
by  the  storm  and  fire  of  disease !  It  was  hard  for 
her  to  keep  back  her  tears. 

Their  eyes  met  and  his  instantly  shifted.  The 
rest  of  the  world  saw  the  man  of  force  bent  upon 
the  possessions  which  mean  fame  and  honor  re- 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  361 

gardless  of  how  they  are  got.  He  knew  that  he 
could  deceive  the  world,  that  so  long  as  he  was 
rich  and  powerful  it  would  refuse  to  let  him 
undeceive  it,  though  he  might  strive  to  show  it 
what  he  was.  But  he  knew  that  she  saw  him  as 
he  really  was — knew  him  as  only  a  husband  and 
a  wife  can  know  each  the  other.  And  he  respected 
her  for  the  qualities  which  gave  her  a  right  to 
despise  him,  and  which  had  forced  her  to  exer 
cise  that  right.  He  felt  himself  the  superior  of 
the  rest  of  his  fellow-beings,  but  her  inferior; 
did  she  not  successfully  defy  him;  could  she  not, 
without  a  word,  by  simply  resting  her  calm  gaze 
upon  him,  make  him  shift  and  slink? 

He  felt  that  he  must  change  the  subject — not 
of  their  conversation,  for  they  were  not  talking, 
but  of  their — her — thoughts.  He  did  not  know 
precisely  what  she  was  thinking  of  him,  but  he 
was  certain  that  it  was  not  anything  favorable — 
how  could  it  be?  In  fact,  fight  though  she  did 
against  the  thought,  into  her  mind  as  she  looked, 
pitying  yet  shrinking,  came  his  likeness  to  a  wolf 
— starved  and  sick  and  gaunt,  by  weakness  tamed 
into  surface  restraint,  but  in  vicious  teeth,  in  sav 
age  lips,  in  jaw  made  to  crush  for  love  of  crush- 


362  THE  COST 

ing,  a  wicked  wolf,  impatient  to  resume  the  life 
of  the  beast  of  prey. 

By  a  mischance  unavoidable  in  a  mind  filled  as 
was  his  he  began  to  tell  of  his  revenge — of  the 
exhibition  of  power  he  purposed  to  give,  sudden 
and  terrible.  He  talked  of  his  enemies  as  a  cat 
might  of  a  mouse  it  was  teasing  in  the  impassable 
circle  of  its  paws.  She  felt  that  they  deserved  the 
thunderbolt  he  said  he  was  about  to  hurl  into 
them,  but  she  could  not  help  feeling  pity  for 
them.  If  what  he  said  of  his  resources  and  power 
were  true,  how  feeble,  how  helpless  they  were — 
pygmies  fatuously  disporting  themselves  in  the 
palm  of  a  giant's  hand,  unconscious  of  where  they 
were,  of  the  cruel  eyes  laughing  at  them,  of  the 
iron  muscles  that  would  presently  contract  that 
hand  and — she  shuddered;  his  voice  came  to  her 
in  a  confused  murmur. 

"If  he  does  not  stop  I  shall  loathe  him  again!" 
she  said  to  herself.  Then  to  him :  "Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  see  Langdon — he's  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Gladys." 

"I  sent  for  him  two  hours  ago.  Yes,  tell  him 
to  come  up  at  once." 

As  she  took  the  cup  he  detained  her  hand.  She 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  363 

beat  down  the  impulse  to  snatch  it  away,  let  it  lie 
passive.  He  pressed  his  lips  upon  it. 

"I  haven't  thanked  you  for  coming  back/'  he 
said  in  a  low  voice,  holding  to  her  hand  nervously. 
''But  you  know  it  wasn't  because  I'm  not  grate 
ful,  don't  you?  I  can  hardly  believe  yet  that  it 
isn't  a  dream.  I'd  have  said  there  wasn't  a  human 
being  on  earth  who'd  have  done  it — except  your 
mother.  No,  not  even  you,  only  your  mother." 

At  this  tribute  to  her  mother,  unexpected,  sin 
cere,  tears  dimmed  Pauline's  eyes  and  a  sob  chok 
ed  up  into  her  throat. 

"It  was  your  mother  in  you  that  made  you 
come,"  he  went  on.  "But  you  came — and  I'll  not 
forget  it.  You  said  you  had  come  to  stay — is 
that  so,  Pauline?" 

She  bent  her  head  in  assent. 

"When  I'm  well  and  on  top  again— but 
there's  nothing  in  words.  All  I'll  say  is,  you're 
giving  me  a  chance,  and  I'll  make  the  best  of  it. 
I've  learned  my  lesson." 

He  slowly  released  her  hand.  She  stood  there 
a  moment,  without  speaking,  without  any  definite 
thought.  Then  she  left  to  send  Langdon. 

"Yes,"  Dumont  reflected,  "it  was  her  duty.  It's 
a  woman's  duty  to  be  forgiving  and  gentle  and 


364  THE  COST 

loving  and  pure — they're  made  differently  from 
men.  It  was  unnatural,  her  ever  going  away  at 
all.  But  she's  a  good  woman,  and  she  shall  get 
what  she  deserves  hereafter.  When  I  settle  this 
bill  for  my  foolishness  I'll  not  start  another." 

Duty — that  word  summed  up  his  whole  con 
ception  of  the  right  attitude  of  a  good  woman 
toward  a  man.  A  woman  who  acted  from  love 
might  change  her  mind;  but  duty  was  safe,  was 
always  there  when  a  man  came  back  from  wan 
derings  which  were  mere  amiable,  natural  weak 
nesses  in  the  male.  Love  might  adorn  a  honey 
moon  or  an  escapade ;  duty  was  the  proper  adorn 
ment  of  a  home. 

"I've  just  been  viewing  the  wreck  with  Culver," 
he  said,  as  Langdon  entered,  dressed  in  the  ex 
treme  of  the  latest  London  fashion. 

"Much  damage?" 

''What  didn't  go  in  the  storm  was  carried  off 
by  Giddings  when  he  abandoned  the  ship.  But 
the  hull's  there  and— -oh,  I'll  get  her  off  and  fix 
her  up  all  right." 

"Always  knew  Giddings  was  a  rascal.  He 
oozes  piety  and  respectability.  That's  the  worst 
kind  you  have  down-town.  When  a  man  carrier 
so  much  character  in  his  face — it's  like  a  woman 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  365 

who  carries  so  much  color  in  her  cheeks  that  you 
know  it  couldn't  have  come  from  the  inside." 

"You're  wrong  about  Giddings.  He's  honest 
enough.  Any  other  man  would  have  done  the 
same  in  his  place.  He  stayed  until  there  was  no 
hope  of  saving  the  ship." 

"All  lost  but  his  honor — Wall  Street  honor, 
eh?" 

"Precisely." 

After  a  pause  Langdon  said :  "I'd  no  idea  you 
held  much  of  your  own  stock.  I  thought  you  con 
trolled  through  other  people's  proxies  and  made 
your  profits  by  forcing  the  stock  up  or  down  and 
getting  on  the  other  side  of  the  market." 

"But,  you  see,  I  believe  in  Woolens,"  replied 
Dumont.  "And  I  believe  in  it  still,  Langdon!" 
His  eyes  had  in  them  the  look  of  the  fanatic. 
"That  concern  is  breath  and  blood  and  life  to  me, 
and  wife  and  children  and  parents  and  brothers 
and  sisters.  I've  put  my  whole  self  into  it.  I 
conceived  it.  I  brought  it  into  the  world.  I 
nursed  it  and  brought  it  up.  I  made  it  big  and 
strong  and  great.  It's  mine,  by  heaven!  Mine! 
And  no  man  shall  take  it  from  me !" 

He  was  sitting  up,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes 
blazing.  "Gad — he  does  look  a  wild  beast !"  said 


366  THE  COST 

Langdon  to  himself.  He  would  have  said  aloud, 
had  Dumont  been  well:  "I'm  precious  glad  I 
ain't  the  creature  those  fangs  are  reaching  for!" 
He  was  about  to  caution  him  against  exciting 
himself  when  Dumont  sank  back  with  a  cynical 
smile  at  his  own  outburst. 

"But  to  get  down  to  business,"  he  went  on. 
"I've  eleven  millions  of  the  stock  left — about  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  shares.  Gladys  has 
fifty  thousand  shares — how  much  have  you  got  ?" 

"Less  than  ten  thousand.  And  I'd  have  had 
none  at  all  if  my  mind  hadn't  been  full  of  other 
things  as  I  was  sailing.  I  forgot  to  tell  my  broker 
to  sell." 

Dumont  was  reflecting.  Presently  he  said: 
"Those  curs  not  only  took  most  of  my  stock  and 
forced  the  sale  of  most  of  my  other  securities; 
they've  put  me  in  such  a  light  that  outside  stock 
holders  wouldn't  send  me  their  proxies  now.  To 
get  back  control  I  must  smash  them,  and  I  must 
also  acquire  pretty  nearly  half  the  shares,  and 
hold  them  till  I'm  firm  in  the  saddle  again." 

"You'd  better  devote  yourself  for  the  present  to 
escaping  the  grave.  Why  bother  about  business  ? 
You've  got  enough — too  much,  as  it  is.  Take  a 
holiday — go  away  and  amuse  yourself." 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  367 

Dumont  smiled.  'That's  what  I'm  going  to 
(do,  what  I'm  doing — amusing  myself.  I  couldn't 
sleep,  I  couldn't  live,  if  I  didn't  feel  that  I  was 
on  my  way  back  to  power.  Now — in  the  present 
market  I  couldn't  borrow  on  my  Woolens  stock. 
I've  two  requests  to  make  of  you." 

"Anything  that's  possible." 

"The  first  is,  I  want  you  to  lend  me  four  mil 
lions,  or,  rather,  negotiate  the  loan  for  me,  as  if 
it  were  for  yourself.  I've  got  about  that  amount 
in  Governments,  in  several  good  railways  and  in 
the  property  here.  The  place  at  Saint  X  is  Pau 
line's,  but  the  things  I  can  put  up  would  bring 
four  millions  and  a  half  at  least  at  forced  sale.  So, 
you'll  be  well  secured.  I'm  asking  you  to  do  it 
instead  of  doing  it  myself  because,  if  I'm  to  win 
out,  the  Herron  crowd  must  think  I'm  done  for 
and  nearly  dead." 

Langdon  was  silent  several  minutes.  At  last 
he  said :  "What's  your  plan?" 

Dumont  looked  irritated — he  did  not  like  to  be 
questioned,  to  take  any  one  into  his  confidence. 
But  he  restrained  his  temper  and  said:  "I'm 
going  to  make  a  counter-raid.  I  know  where  to 
strike." 

"Are  you  sure?" 


368  THE  COST 

Dumont  frowned.  "Don't  disturb  yourself/' 
he  said  coldly.  "I  can  arrange  the  loan  in  another 
way." 

"I'm  asking  you  only  for  your  own  sake,  Jack," 
Langdon  hastily  interposed.  "Of  course  you  can 
have  the  money,  and  I  don't  want  your  security." 

"Then  I'll  not  borrow  through  you."  Dumont 
never  would  accept  a  favor  from  any  one.  He 
regarded  favors  as  profitable  investments  but 
ruinous  debts. 

"Oh— very  well— I'll  take  the  security,"  said 
Langdon.  "When  do  you  want  the  money?" 

"It  must  be  covered  into  my  account  at  the 
Inter-State  National — remember,  not  the  National 
Industrial,  but  the  Inter-State  National.  A  mil 
lion  must  be  deposited  to-day — the  rest  by  ten 
o'clock  to-morrow  at  the  latest." 

"I'll  attend  to  it.    What's  your  other  request?" 

"Woolens'll  take  another  big  drop  on  Monday 
and  at  least  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
shares'll  be  thrown  on  the  market  at  perhaps  an 
average  price  of  eighteen — less  rather  than  more. 
I  want  you  quietly  to  organize  a  syndicate  to  buy 
what's  offered.  They  must  agree  to  sell  it  to  me 
for,  say,  two  points  advance  on  what  they  pay  for 
it.  I'll  put  up — in  your  name — a  million  dollars 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  369 

in  cash  and  forfeit  it  if  I  don't  take  the  stock  off 
their  hands.  As  Woolens  is  worth  easily  double 
what  it  now  stands  at,  they  can't  lose.  Of  course 
the  whole  thing  must  be  kept  secret." 

Langdon  deliberated  this  proposal.  Finally  he 
said:  "I  think  brother-in-law  Barrow  and  his 
partner  and  I  can  manage  it." 

"You  can  assure  them  they'll  make  from  six 
hundred  thousand  to  a  million  on  a  less  than 
thirty  days'  investment  of  four  millions  and  a 
half,  with  no  risk  whatever." 

"Just  about  that,"  assented  Langdon — he  riad 
been  carefully  brought  up  by  his  father  to  take 
care  of  a  fortune  and  was  cleverer  at  figures  than 
he  pretended. 

"Do  your,  buying  through  Tavistock,"  con 
tinued  Dumont.  "Give  him  orders  to  take  on 
Monday  all  offerings  of  National  Woolens,  pre^ 
ferred  and  common,  at  eighteen  or  less.  He'll 
understand  what  to  do." 

"But  I  may  be  unable  to  get  up  the  syndicate 
on  such  short  notice." 

"You  must,"  said  Dumont.  "And  you  will 
You  can  get  a  move  on  yourself  when  you  try — = 
I  found  that  out  when  I  was  organizing  my  orig 
inal  combine.  One  thing  more — very  important,- 


370  THE  COST 

Learn  for  me  all  you  can — without  being  sus 
pected — about  the  Fanning-Smiths  and  Great 
Lakes." 

He  made  Langdon  go  over  the  matters  he  was 
to  attend  to,  point  by  point,  before  he  would  let 
him  leave.  He  was  asleep  when  the  nurse,  sent 
in  by  Langdon  on  his  way  out,  reached  his  bed — 
the  sound  and  peaceful  sleep  of  a  veteran  cam 
paigner  whose  nerves  are  trained  to  take  advan 
tage  of  every  lull. 

At  ten  the  next  morning  he  sent  the  nurse  out 
of  his  room.  "And  close  the  doors,"  he  said, 
"and  don't  come  until  I  ring."  He  began  to  use 
the  branch  telephone  at  his  bedside,  calling  up 
Langdon,  and  then  Tavistock,  to  assure  himself 
fchat  all  was  going  well.  Next  he  called  up  in 
succession  five  of  the  great  individual  money 
lenders  of  Wall  Street,  pledged  them  to  secrecy 
and  made  arrangements  for  them  to  call  upon  him 
at  his  house  at  different  hours  that  day  and  Sun 
day.  Another  might  have  intrusted  the  making 
of  these  arrangements  to  Culver  or  Langdon,  but 
Dumont  never  let  any  one  man  know  enough  of 
his  plan  of  battle  to  get  an  idea  of  the  whole. 
"Now  for  the  ammunition,"  he  muttered,  when 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  371 

the  last  appointment  was  made.  And  he  rang  for 
Culver. 

Culver  brought  him  writing  materials.  "Take 
this  order,"  he  said,  as  he  wrote,  "to  the  Central 
Park  Safety  Deposit  vaults  and  bring  me  from 
my  compartment  the  big  tin  box  with  my  initials 
in  white — remember,  in  white — on  the  end  of  it." 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  Culver  return 
ed,  half -carry  ing,  half-dragging  the  box.  Du- 
mont's  eyes  lighted  up  at  sight  of  it.  "Ah!"  he 
said,  in  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  relief.  "Put  it 
tinder  the  head  of  the  bed  here.  Thanks.  That's 
all." 

The  nurse  came  as  Culver  left,  but  he  sent  her 
away.  He  supported  himself  to  the  door,  locked 
it.  He  took  his  keys  from  the  night-stand,  drew 
out  the  box  and  opened  it.  On  the  mass  of  stocks 
and  bonds  lay  an  envelope  containing  two  lists — 
one,  of  the  securities  in  the  box  that  were  the  pro 
perty  of  Gladys  Dumont ;  the  other,  of  the  securi 
ties  there  that  were  the  property  of  Laura  Du 
mont,  their  mother. 

His  hands  shook  as  he  unfolded  these  lists,  and 
a  creaking  in  the  walls  or  flooring  made  him  start 
and  glance  round  with  the  look  of  a  surprised 
thief.  But  this  weakness  was  momentary.  He 


372  THE  COST 

was  soon  absorbed  in  mentally  arranging  the  se 
curities  to  the  best  advantage  for  distribution 
among  the  money-lenders  as  collateral  for  the 
cash  he  purposed  to  stake  in  his  game. 

Such  thought  as  he  gave  to  the  moral  quality  of 
what  he  was  doing  with  his  sister's  and  his 
mother's  property  without  asking  their  consent 
was  altogether  favorable  to  himself.  His  was  a 
well-trained,  "practical"  conscience.  It  often 
anticipated  his  drafts  upon  it  for  moral  support  in 
acts  that  might  at  first  blush  seem  criminal,  or 
for  soothing  apologies  for  acts  which  were  un 
deniably  "not  quite  right."  This  particular  act, 
conscience  assured  him,  was  of  the  highest  mor 
ality — under  his  own  code.  For  the  code  enacted 
by  ordinary  human  beings  to  guide  their  foolish 
little  selves  he  had  no  more  respect  than  a  lion 
would  have  for  a  moral  code  enacted  by  and  for 
sheep.  The  sheep  might  assert  that  their  code 
was  for  lions  also ;  but  why  should  that  move  the 
lions  to  anything  but  amusement  ?  He  had  made 
his  own  code — not  by  special  revelation  from  the 
Almighty,  as  did  some  of  his  fellow  practitioners 
Of  high  finance,  but  by  especial  command  of  his 
imperial  "destiny."  And  it  was  a  strict  code — 
it  had  earned  him  his  unblemished  reputation  for 


A  DESPERATE  RALLY  373 

inflexible  commercial  honesty  and  commercial 
truthfulness.  The  foundation  principle  was  his 
absolute  right  to  the  great  property  he  had  creat 
ed.  This  being  granted,  how  could  there  be  im 
morality  in  any  act  whatsoever  that  might  be 
necessary  to  hold  or  regain  his  kingdom?  As 
well  debate  the  morality  of  a  mother  in  "com 
mandeering"  bread  or  even  a  life  to  save  her  baby 
from  death. 

His  kingdom !  His  by  discovery,  his  by  adroit 
appropriation,  his  by  intelligent  development,  his 
by  the  right  of  mental  might — his!  Stake  his 
sister's  and  his  mother's  possessions  for  it? 
Their  lives,  if  necessary! 

Than  John  Dumont,  president  of  the  Woolens 
Monopoly,  there  was  no  firmer  believer  in  the 
gospel  of  divine  right — the  divine  right  of  this 
new  race  of  kings,  the  puissant  lords  of  trade. 

When  he  had  finished  his  preparations  for  the 
money-lenders  he  unlocked  the  door  and  sank  into 
bed  exhausted.  Hardly  had  he  settled  himself 
when,  without  knocking,  Gladys  entered,  Pauline 
just  behind  her.  His  face  blanched  and  from  his 
dry  throat  came  a  hoarse,  strange  cry — it  certainly 
sounded  like  fright.  "You  startled  me — that  was 


37*  THE  COST 

all,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  as  much  to  himself 
as  to  them.  For,  a  something  inside  him  had 
echoed  the  wondering  inquiry  in  the  two  women's 
faces — a  something  that  persisted  in  reverencing 
the  moral  code  which  his  new  code  had  super 
seded. 


XXVII. 

THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  James, 
head  of  the  Fanning-Smith  family,  president  of 
Fanning-Smith  and  Company,  and  chairman  of 
the  Great  Lakes  and  Gulf  railway — to  note 
his  chief  titles  to  eminence  up-town  and 
down — was  seated  in  his  grandfather's  office, 
in  his  grandfather's  chair,  at  his  grand 
father's  desk.  Above  his  head  hung  his  grand 
father's  portrait;  and  he  was  a  slightly  modern 
ized  reproduction  of  it.  As  he  was  thus  in  every 
outward  essential  his  grandfather  over  again,  he 
and  his  family  and  the  social  and  business  world 
assumed  that  he  was  the  reincarnation  of  the 
crafty  old  fox  who  first  saw  the  light  of  day 
through  the  chinks  in  a  farm-hand's  cottage  in 
Maine  and  last  saw  it  as  it  sifted  through  the 
real-lace  curtains  of  his  gorgeous  bedroom  in  his 
great  Madison  Avenue  mansion.  But  in  fact 
James  was  only  physically  and  titularly  the  repre 
sentative  of  his  grandfather.  Actually  he  was 

typical  of  the  present  generation    of    Fanning- 

375 


376  THE  COST 

Smiths — a  self-intoxicated,  stupid  and  pretentious 
generation;  a  polo-playing  and  racing  and  hunt 
ing,  a  yachting  and  palace-dwelling  and  money- 
scattering  generation;  a  business-despising  and 
business-neglecting,  an  old-world  aristocracy- 
imitating  generation.  He  moved  pompously 
through  his  two  worlds,  fashion  and  business, 
deceiving  himself  completely,  every  one  else  ex 
cept  his  wife  more  or  less,  her  not  at  all — but 
that  was  the  one  secret  she  kept. 

James  was  the  husband  of  Herron's  daughter 
by  his  first  wife,  and  Herron  had  induced  him  to 
finance  the  syndicate  that  had  raided  and  cap 
tured  National  Woolens. 

James  was  bred  to  conservatism.  His  timidity 
was  of  that  wholesome  strength  which  so  often 
saves  chuckle-heads  from  the  legitimate  conse 
quences  of  their  vanity  and  folly.  But  the  spec 
tacle  of  huge  fortunes,  risen  overnight  before 
the  wands  of  financial  magicians  whose  abilities 
he  despised  when  he  compared  them  with  his  own, 
was  too  much  for  timidity.  He  had  been  born 
with  a  large  vanity,  and  it  had  been  stuffed  from 
his  babyhood  by  all  around  him  until  it  was  be 
come  as  abnormal  as  the  liver  of  a  Strasburg 
goose — and  as  supersensitive.  It  suffered  acutely 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  377 

as  these  Jacks  went  climbing  up  their  bean-stalk 
wealth  to  heights  of  magnificence  from  which  the 
establishments  and  equipages  of  the  Fanning- 
Smiths  must  seem  poor  to  shabbiness.  He  sneered 
at  them  as  "vulgar  new-comers";  he  professed 
abhorrence  of  their  ostentation.  But  he — and 
Gertrude,  his  wife — envied  them,  talked  of  them 
constantly,  longed  to  imitate,  to  surpass  them. 

In  the  fullness  of  time  his  temptation  came.  He 
shivered,  shrank,  leaped  headlong — his  wife  push 
ing. 

About  ten  days  before  the  raid  on  National 
Woolens  there  had  drifted  in  to  Dumont  througn 
one  of  his  many  subterranean  sources  of  informa 
tion  a  rumor  that  the  Fanning-Smiths  had 
stealthily  reduced  their  holdings  of  Great  Lakes 
to  twenty-one  thousand  shares  and  that  the  prop 
erty  was  not  so  good  as  it  had  once  been.  He 
never  permitted  any  Wall  Street  development  to 
pass  unexplained — he  thought  it  simple  prudence 
for  a  man  with  the  care  of  a  great  financial  and 
commercial  enterprise  to  look  into  every  dark 
corner  of  the  Street  and  see  what  was  hatching 
there.  Accordingly,  he  sent  an  inquiry  back  along 
his  secret  avenue,  Soon  he  learned  that  Great 
Lakes  was  sound,  but  the  Fanning-Smiths 


378  THE  COST 

gone  rotten;  that  they  were  gambling  in  the 
stock  of  the  road  they  controlled  and  were  sup 
posed  in  large  part  to  own ;  that  they  were  secretly 
selling  its  stock  "short" — that  is,  were  betting  it 
would  go  down — when  there  was  nothing  in  the 
condition  of  the  property  to  justify  a  fall.  He 
reflected  on  this  situation  and  reached  these  con 
clusions:  "James  Fanning-Smith  purposes  to 
pass  the  autumn  dividend,  which  will  cause  the 
stock  to  drop.  Then  he  will  take  his  profits  from 
the  shares  he  has  sold  short  and  will  buy  back 
control  at  the  low  price.  He  is  a  fool  and  a  knave. 
Only  an  imbecile  would  thus  trifle  with  an  estab 
lished  property.  A  chance  for  some  one  to  make 
a  fortune  and  win  a  railroad  by  smashing  the 
Fanning-Smiths."  Having  recorded  in  his  indel 
ible  memory  these  facts  and  conclusions  as  to 
James  Fanning-Smith's  plunge  from  business  into 
gambling,  Dumont  returned  to  his  own  exacting 
affairs. 

He  had  himself  begun  the  race  for  multi-mil 
lions  as  a  gambler  and  had  only  recently  become 
almost  altogether  a  business  man.  But  he  thought 
there  was  a  radical  difference  between  his  case  and 
Fanning-Smith's.  To  use  courageous  gambling 
as  a  means  to  a  foothold  in  business — he  regard- 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  379 

ed  that  as  wise  audacity.  To  use  a  firm-estab 
lished  foothold  in  business  as  a  means  to  gambling 
— he  regarded  that  as  the  acme  of  reckless  folly. 
Besides,  when  he  marked  the  cards  or  loaded  the 
dice  for  a  great  Wall  Street  game  of  "high  fin 
ance,"  he  did  it  with  skill  and  intelligence;  and 
Fanning-Smith  had  neither. 

When  the  banking-house  of  Fanning-Smith 
and  Company  undertook  to  finance  the  raid  on 
National  Woolens  it  was  already  deep  in  the 
Great  Lakes  gamble.  James  was  new  to  Wall 
Street's  green  table;  and  he  liked  the  sensations 
and  felt  that  his  swindle  on  other  gamblers  and 
the  public — he  did  not  call  it  by  that  homely 
name,  though  he  knew  others  would  if  they  found 
him  out — was  moving  smoothly.  Still  very,  very 
deep  down  his  self-confidence  was  underlaid  with 
quicksand.  But  Herron  was  adroit  and  convinc 
ing  to  the  degree  attainable  only  by  those  who 
deceive  themselves  before  trying  to  deceive  others ; 
and  James'  cupidity  and  conceit  were  enormous. 
He  ended  by  persuading  himself  that  his  house, 
directed  and  protected  by  his  invincible  self,  could 
carry  with  ease  the  burden  of  both  loads.  In 
deed,  the  Great  Lakes  gamble  now  seemed  to  him 
a  negligible  triile  in  the  comparison — what  were 


380  THE  COST 

its  profits  of  a  few  hundred  thousands  beside  the 
millions  that  would  surely  be  his  when  the  great 
Woolens  Monopoly,  bought  in  for  a  small  frac 
tion  of  its  value,  should  be  controlled  by  a  group 
of  which  he  would  be  the  dominant  personality? 

He  ventured;  he  won.  He  was  now  secure — 
was  not  Dumont  dispossessed,  despoiled,  dying? 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  that  Monday  morning  he 
was  seated  upon  his  embossed  leather  throne, 
under  his  grandfather's  portrait,  immersed  in  an 
atmosphere  of  self-adoration.  At  intervals  he 
straightened  himself,  distended  his  chest,  elevated 
his  chin  and  glanced  round  with  an  air  of  haughty 
dignity,  though  there  was  none  to  witness  and  to 
be  impressed.  In  Wall  Street  there  is  a  fatuity 
which,  always  epidemic  among  the  small  fry, 
infects  wise  and  foolish,  great  and  small,  when 
ever  a  paretic  dream  of  an  enormous  haul  at  a 
single  cast  of  the  net  happens  to  come  true.  This 
paretic  fatuity  now  had  possession  of  James;  in 
imagination  he  was  crowning  and  draping  him 
self  with  multi-millions,  power  and  fame.  At  in 
tervals  he  had  been  calling  up  on  the  telephone  at 
his  elbow  Zabriskie,  the  firm's  representative  on 
'Change,  and  had  been,  spurring  him  on  to  larger 
and  more  frequent  "sales"  of  Great  LakeSo 


THE  OTHER  MAN7S  MIGHT  381 

His  telephone  bell  rang.  He  took  down  the 
receiver — "Yes,  it's  Mr.  Fanning-Smith— oh— • 

Mr.  Fanshaw "  He  listened,  in  his  face  for 

the  first  few  seconds  all  the  pitying  amusement  a 
small,  vain  man  can  put  into  an  expression  of 
superiority.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Fanshaw,"  he 
said.  "But  really,  it's  impossible.  We  are  per 
fectly  secure.  No  one  would  venture  to  disturb 
us."  And  he  pursed  his  lips  and  swelled  his  fat 
cheeks  in  the  look  for  which  his  father  was  noted. 
But,  after  listening  a  few  seconds  longer,  his  eyes 
had  in  them  the  beginnings  of  timidity. 

He  turned  his  head  so  that  he  could  see  the 
ticker-tape  as  it  reeled  off.  His  heavy  cheeks 
slowly  relaxed.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"I'll  just  speak  to  our  Mr.  Zabriskie.  Good-by." 
And  he  rang  off  and  had  his  telephone  connected 
with  the  telephone  Zabriskie  was  using  at  the 
Stock  Exchange.  All  the  while  his  eyes  were  on 
the  ticker-tape.  Suddenly  he  saw  upon  it  where 
it  was  bending  from  under  the  turning  wheel  a 
figure  that  made  him  drop  the  receiver  and  seize 
it  in  both  his  trembling  hands.  "Great  heavens  1" 
he  gasped.  "Fanshaw  may  be  right.  Great 
Lakes  one  hundred  and  twelve — and  only  a  mo 
ment  ago  it  was  one  hundred  and  three/' 


382  THE  COST 

His  visions  of  wealth  and  power  and  fame  were 
whisking  off  in  a  gale  of  terror.  A  new  quotation 
was  coming  from  under  the  wheel — Great  Lakes 
one  hundred  and  fifteen.  In  his  eyes  stared  the 
awful  thought  that  was  raging  in  his  brain — 
"This  may  mean — • — "  And  his  vanity  instantly 
thrust  out  Herron  and  Gertrude  and  pointed  at 
them  as  the  criminals  who  would  be  responsible 
if — he  did  not  dare  formulate  the  possibilities  of 
that  bounding  price. 

The  telephone  boy  at  the  other  end,  going  in 
search  of  Zabriskie,  left  the  receiver  off  the  hook 
and  the  door  of  the  booth  open.  Into  Fanning- 
Smith's  ear  came  the  tumult  from  the  floor  of  the 
Exchange — shrieks  and  yells  riding  a  roar  like 
the  breakers  of  an  infernal  sea.  And  on  the  ticker- 
tape  James  was  reading  the  story  of  the  cause, 
was  reading  how  his  Great  Lakes  venture  was 
caught  in  those  breakers,  was  rushing  upon  the 
rocks  amid  the  despairing  wails  of  its  crew,  the 
triumphant  jeers  of  the  wreckers  on  shore.  Great 
Lakes  one  hundred  and  eighteen — tick— tick — 
tick — Great  Lakes  one  hundred  and  twenty-three 
— tick — tick — tick — Great  Lakes  one  hundred 
and  thirty — tick — tick — tick — Great  Lakes  one 
hundred  and  thirty-five 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  383 

"It  can't  be  true!"  he  moaned.  "It  can't  be 
true!  If  it  is  I'm  ruined — all  of  us  ruined !" 

The  roar  in  the  receiver  lessened — some  one 
had  entered  the  booth  at  the  other  end  and  had 
closed  the  door.  "Well!"  he  heard  in  a  sharp, 
impatient  voice — Zabriskie's. 

"What  is  it,  Ned— what's  the  matter?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  Fanning-Smith's  voice  was 
like  the  shrill  shriek  of  a  coward  in  a  perilous 
storm.  It  was  in  itself  complete  explanation  of 
Zabriskie's  neglect  to  call  upon  him  for  orders. 

"Don't  ask  me.  Somebody's  rocketing  Great 
Lakes — taking  all  offerings.  Don't  keep  me  here. 
I'm  having  a  hard  enough  time,  watching  this 
crazy  market  and  sending  our  orders  by  the 
roundabout  way.  Got  anything  to  suggest?" 

Tick — tick — tick — Commander-in-chief  Fan- 
ning-Smith  watched  the  crawling  tape  in  fasci 
nated  horror — Great  Lakes  one  hundred  and  thir 
ty-eight.  It  had  spelled  out  for  him  another  letter 
of  that  hideous  word,  Ruin.  All  the  moisture  of 
his  body  seemed  to  be  on  the  outside;  inside,  he 
was  dry  and  hot  as  a  desert.  If  the  price  went  no 
higher,  if  it  did  not  come  down,  nearly  all  he  had 
in  the  world  would  be  needed  to  settle  his  "short" 
contracts.  For  he  would  have  to  deliver  at  one 


884  THE  COST 

hundred  and  seven,  more  than  two  hundred  thou 
sand  shares  which  he  had  contracted  to  sell;  and 
to  get  them  for  delivery  he  would  have  to  pay 
one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  dollars  a  share.  A 
net  loss  of  more  than  six  millions ! 

"You  must  get  that  price  down — you  must! 
You  must!"  quavered  James. 

"Hell!"  exclaimed  Zabriskie — he  was  the 
youngest  member  of  the  firm,  a  son  of  James'  old 
est  sister.  'Tell  me  how,  and  I'll  do  it." 

"You're  there — you  know  what  to  do,"  pleaded 
James.  "And  I  order  you  to  get  that  price  down !" 

"Don't  keep  me  here,  talking  rot.  I've  been 
fighting — and  I'm  going  to  keep  on." 

James  shivered.  Fighting !  There  was  no  fight 
in  him — all  his  life  he  had  got  everything  with 
out  fighting.  "Do  your  best,"  he  said.  "I'm  very 
ill  to-day.  I'm— " 

"Good-by — "  Zabriskie  had  hung  up  the  re 
ceiver. 

James  sat  staring  at  the  tape  like  a  paralytic 
staring  at  death.  The  minutes  lengthened  into  an 
hour — into  two  hours.  No  one  disturbed  him — 
when  the  battle  is  on  who  thinks  of  the  "honor 
ary  commander"  ?  At  one  o'clock  he  shook  him 
self,  brushed  his  hand  over  his  eyes — quotations 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  385 

of  Woolens  were  reeling  off  the  tape,  alternating 
with  quotations  of  Great  Lakes. 

"Zabriskie  is  selling  our  Woolens,"  he  thought. 
Then,  with  a  blinding  flash  the  truth  struck 
through  his  brain.  He  gave  a  loud  cry  between  a 
sob  and  a  shriek  and,  flinging  his  arms  at  full 
length  upon  his  desk,  buried  his  face  between 
them  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Ruined!  Ruined!  Ruined!"  And  his 
shoulders,  his  whole  body,  shook  like  a  child  in  a 
paroxysm. 

A  long,  long  ring  at  the  telephone.  Fanning- 
Smith,  irritated  by  the  insistent  jingling  so  close 
to  his  ear,  lifted  himself  and  answered — the  tears 
were  guttering  his  swollen  face;  his  lips  and  eye 
lids  were  twitching. 

"Well?"  he  said  feebly. 

"We've  got  'em  on  the  run,"  came  the  reply  in 
Zabriskie's  voice,  jubilant  now. 

"Who?" 

"Don't  know  who — whoever  was  trying  to 
squeeze  us.  I  had  to  throw  over  some  Woolens 
— but  I'll  pick  it  up  again — maybe  to-day." 

Fanning-Smith  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  Ex 
change — wilder,  fiercer  than  three  hours  before, 
but  music  to  him  now.  He  looked  sheepishly  at 


386  THE  COST 

the  portrait  of  his  grandfather.  When  its  eyes 
met  his  he  flushed  and  shifted  his  gaze  guiltily. 
"Must  have  been  something  I  ate  for  breakfast/' 
he  muttered  to  the  portrait  and  to  himself  in  apol 
ogetic  explanation  of  his  breakdown. 

In  a  distant  part  of  the  field  all  this  time  was 
posted  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  army  of 
attack.  Like  all  wise  commanders  in  all  well-con 
ducted  battles,  he  was  far  removed  from  the 
blinding  smoke,  from  the  distracting  confusion. 
He  had  placed  himself  where  he  could  hear,  see, 
instantly  direct,  without  being  disturbed  by  tri 
fling  reverse  or  success,  by  unimportant  rumors  to 
vast  proportions  blown. 

To  play  his  game  for  dominion  or  destruction 
John  Dumont  had  had  himself  arrayed  in  a  wine- 
colored,  wadded  silk  dressing-gown  over  his  white 
silk  pajamas  and  had  stretched  himself  on  a  divan 
in  his  sitting-room  in  his  palace.  A  telephone  and 
a  stock-ticker  within  easy  reach  were  his  field- 
glasses  and  his  aides — the  stock-ticker  would 
show  him  second  by  second  the  precise  posture  of 
the  battle;  the  telephone  would  enable  him  to 
direct  it  to  the  minutest  manoeuver. 

The  telephone  led  to  the  ear  of  his  chief  of 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  387 

staff,  Tavistock,  who  was  at  his  desk  in  his  privat- 
est  office  in  the  Mills  Building,  about  him  tele 
phones  straight  to  the  ears  of  the  division  com 
manders.  None  of  these  knew  who  was  his 
commander;  indeed,  none  knew  that  there  was  to 
be  a  battle  or,  after  the  battle  was  on,  that  they 
were  part  of  one  of  its  two  contending  armies. 
They  would  blindly  obey  orders,  ignorant  wliJ 
was  aiming  the  guns  they  fired  and  at  whom  those 
guns  were  aimed.  Such  conditions  would  have 
been  fatal  to  the  barbaric  struggles  for  supremacy 
which  ambition  has  waged  through  all  the  past; 
they  are  ideal  conditions  for  these  modern  con 
flicts  of  the  market  which  more  and  more  absorb 
the  ambitions  of  men.  Instead  of  shot  and  shell 
and  regiments  of  "cannon  food,"  there  are  bat 
talions  of  capital,  the  paper  certificates  of  the 
stored-up  toil  or  trickery  of  men;  instead  of 
mangled  bodies  and  dead,  there  are  minds  in  the 
torment  of  financial  peril  or  numb  with  the  des 
pair  of  financial  ruin.  But  the  stakes  are  the  same 
old  stakes — power  and  glory  and  wealth  for  a 
few,  thousands  on  thousands  dragged  or  cozened 
into  the  battle  in  whose  victory  they  share  scant 
ily,  if  at  all,  although  they  bear  its  heaviest  losses 
on  both  sides. 


388  THE  COST 

It  was  half-past  eight  o'clock  when  Dumont 
put  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  greeted  Tavistock 
in  a  strong,  cheerful  voice.  "Never  felt  better  in 
my  life,"  was  his  answer  to  Tavistock's  inquiry 
as  to  his  health.  "Even  old  Sackett  admits  I'm 
in  condition.  But  he  says  I  must  have  no  irrita 
tions — so,  be  careful  to  carry  out  orders." 

He  felt  as  well  as  he  said.  His  body  seemed 
the  better  for  its  rest  and  purification,  for  its  long 
freedom  from  his  occasional  but  terrific  assaults 
upon  it,  for  having  got  rid  of  the  superfluous 
flesh  which  had  been  swelling  and  weighting  it. 

He  made  Tavistock  repeat  all  the  orders  he  had 
given  him,  to  assure  himself  he  had  not  been  mis 
understood.  As  he  listened  to  the  rehearsal  of 
his  own  shrewd  plans  his  eyes  sparkled.  "I'll  bag 

the  last of  them,"  he  muttered,  and  his  lips 

twisted  into  a  smile  at  which  Culver  winced. 

When  the  ticker  clicked  the  first  quotation  of 
Great  Lakes  Dumont  said :  "Now,  clear  out,  Cul 
ver  !  And  shut  the  door  after  you,  and  let  no  one 
interrupt  me  until  I  call."  He  wished  to  have  no 
restraint  upon  his  thoughts,  no  eyes  to  watch  his 
face,  no  ears  to  hear  what  the  fortune  of  the  battle 
might  wring  from  him. 

As  the  ticker  pushed  out  the  news  of  the  early, 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  389 

declines  and  recoveries  in  Great  Lakes,  Tavistock 
leading  the  Fanning-Smith  crowd  on  to  make 
heavier  and  heavier  plunges,  Dumont  could  see  in 
imagination  the  battle-field — the  floor  of  the  Stock 
Exchange — as  plainly  as  if  he  were  there. 

The  battle  began  with  a  languid  cannonade 
between  the  two  seemingly  opposed  parts  of  Du- 
mont's  army.  Under  cover  of  this  he  captured 
most  of  the  available  actual  shares  of  Great  Lakes 
— valuable  aids  toward  making  his  position,  hist 
"corner,"  impregnable.  But  before  he  had  accom 
plished  his  full  purpose  Zabriskie,  nominal  lieu 
tenant-commander,  actual  commander  of  the 
Fanning-Smith  forces,  advanced  to  give  battle. 
Instead  of  becoming  suspicious  at  the  steadiness 
of  the  price  under  his  attacks  upon  it,  Zabriskie 
was  lured  on  to  sell  more  of  those  Great  Lakes 
shares  which  he  did  not  have.  And  he  beamed 
from  his  masked  position  as  he  thought  of  the 
batteries  he  was  holding  in  reserve  for  his  grand 
movement  to  batter  down  the  price  of  the  stock 
late  in  the  day,  and  capture  these  backers  of  the 
property  that  was  supposed  to  be  under  the  pro 
tection  of  the  high  and  honorable  Fanning- 
Smiths. 

He  was  still  thinking  along  this  line,  as  he  stood 


390  THE  COST 

aloof  and  apparently  disinterested,  when  Dumont 
began  to  close  in  upon  him.  Zabriskie,  astonish 
ed  by  this  sudden  tremendous  fire,  was  alarmed 
when  under  its  protection  the  price  advanced. 
He  assaulted  in  force  with  large  selling  orders; 
but  the  price  pushed  on  and  the  fierce  cannonade 
of  larger  and  larger  buying  orders  kept  up.  When 
Great  Lakes  had  mounted  in  a  dozen  bounds  from 
one  hundred  and  seven  to  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
nine,  he  for  the  first  time  realized  that  he  was 
facing  not  an  unorganized  speculating  public  but 
a  compact  army,  directed  by  a  single  mind  to  a 
single  purpose.  "A  lunatic — a  lot  of  lunatics/' 
he  said,  having  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the 
reason  for  the  creation  of  these  conditions  of 
frenzy.  Still,  if  this  rise  continued  or  was  not 
reversed  the  Fanning-Smiths  would  be  ruined — - 
by  whom  ?  "Some  of  those  Chicago  bluffers,"  he 
finally  decided.  "I  must  throw  a  scare  into 
them." 

He  could  have  withdrawn  from  the  battle  then 
with  a  pitiful  remnant  of  the  Fanning-Smiths 
and  their  associates — that  is,  he  thought  he  could, 
for  he  did  not  dream  of  the  existence  of  the  "cor 
ner."  But  he  chose  the  opposite  course.  He 
flung  off  his  disguise  and  boldly  attacked  the 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  391 

stock  with  selling  orders  openly  in  the  name  of 
the  Fanning-Smiths. 

"When  they  see  us  apparently  unloading  our 
own  ancestral  property  I  think  they'll  take  to  their 
heels,"  he  said.  But  his  face  was  pale  as  he  await 
ed  the  effect  of  his  assault. 

The  price  staggered,  trembled.  The  clamor  of 
the  battle  alarmed  those  in  the  galleries  of  the 
Stock  Exchange — Zabriskie's  brokers  selling,  the 
brokers  of  the  mysterious  speculator  buying,  the 
speculating  public  through  its  brokers  joining  in 
on  either  side;  men  shrieking  into  each  other's 
faces  as  they  danced  round  and  round  the  Great 
Lakes  pillar.  The  price  went  down,  went  up, 
went  down,  down,  down — Zabriskie  had  hurled 
selling  orders  for  nearly  fifty  thousand  shares  at 
it  and  Dumont  had  commanded  his  guns  to  cease 
firing.  He  did  not  dare  take  any  more  offerings ; 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  ammunition  he  had 
planned  to  expend  at  that  particular  stage  of  the 
battle. 

The  alarm  spread  and,  although  Zabriskie 
ceased  selling,  the  price  continued  to  fall  under  the 
assaults  of  the  speculating  public,  mad  to  get  rid 
of  that  which  its  own  best  friends  were  so  eagerly 
and  so  frankly  throwing  over.  Down,  down, 


393  THE  COST 

down  to  one  hundred  and  twenty,  to  one  hundred 
and  ten,  to  one  hundred  and  five — > — 

Zabriskie  telephoned  victory  to  his  nominal 
commander,  lifting  him,  weak  and  trembling, 
from  the  depths  into  which  he  had  fallen,  to  an 
at  least  upright  position  upon  his  embossed  leather 
throne.  Then  Zabriskie  began  stealthily  to 
cover  his  appallingly  long  line  of  "shorts"  by 
making  purchases  at  the  lowest  obtainable  prices 
— one  hundred  and  four — one  hundred  and  three 
— one  hundred  and  one — ninety-nine — one  hun 
dred  and  six ! 

The  price  rebounded  so  rapidly  and  so  high 
that  Zabriskie  was  forced  to  stop  his  retreat. 
Dumont,  noting  the  celerity  with  which  the  enemy 
were  escaping  under  cover  of  the  demoralization, 
had  decided  no  longer  to  delay  the  move  for 
which  he  had  saved  himself.  He  had  suddenly 
exploded  under  the  falling  price  mine  after  mine 
of  buying  orders  that  blew  it  skyward.  Zabris 
kie' s  retreat  was  cut  off. 

But  before  he  had  time  to  reason  out  this  sav 
age  renewal  of  the  assault  by  that  mysterious  foe 
whom  he  thought  he  had  routed,  he  saw  a  new 
and  more  dreadful  peril.  Brackett,  his  firm's 
secret  broker,  rushed  to  him  and,  to  make  him- 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  393 

self  heard  through  the  hurly-burly,  shouted  into 
his  ear : 

"Look  what's  doing  in  Woolens!" 

Dumont  had  ordered  a  general  assault  upon  his 
enemies,  front,  rear  and  both  flanks.  His  forces 
were  now  attacking  not  only  through  Great  Lakes 
but  also  through  Woolens.  Two  apparently  op 
posing  sets  of  his  brokers  were  trading  in  Wool 
ens,  were  hammering  the  price  down,  down,  a 
point,  an  eighth,  a  half,  a  quarter,  at  a  time.  The 
sweat  burst  out  all  over  Zabriskie's  body  and  his 
eyes  rolled  wildly.  He  was  caught  among  four 
fires : 

To  continue  to  sell  Great  Lakes  in  face  of  its 
rising  price — that  was  ruin.  To  cease  to  sell  it 
and  so  let  its  price  go  up  to  where  he  could  not 
buy  when  settlement  time  came — that  was  ruin. 
To  sell  Woolens,  to  help  batter  down  its  price,  to 
shrink  the  value  of  his  enormous  investment  in 
it — ruin  again.  To  buy  Woolens  in  order  to  hold 
up  its  price,  to  do  it  when  he  would  need  all 
obtainable  cash  to  extricate  him  from  the  Great 
Lakes  entanglement — ruin,  certain  ruin. 

His  judgment  was  gone;  his  brute  instinct  of 
fighting  was  dominant;  he  began  to  strike  out 


394  THE  COST 

wildly,  his  blows  falling  either  nowhere  or  upon 
himself. 

At  the  Woolens  post  he  was  buying-  in  the 
effort  to  sustain  its  price,  buying  stock  that  might 
be  worthless  when  he  got  it — and  that  he  might 
not  be  able  to  pay  for.  At  the  Great  Lakes  post 
he  was  selling  in  the  effort  to  force  the  price 
down,  selling  more  and  more  of  a  stock  he  did 
not  have  and — • —  At  last  the  thought  flashed 
into  his  befuddled  brain :  "There  may  be  a  cor 
ner  in  Great  Lakes.  What  if  there  were  no  stock 
to  be  had?" 

He  struck  his  hands  against  the  sides  of  his 
head.  "Trapped!"  he  groaned,  then  bellowed  in 
Brackett's  ear.  "Sell  Woolens — do  the  best  you 
can  to  keep  the  price  up,  but  sell  at  any  price !  We 
must  have  money — all  we  can  get!  And  tell 
Farley" — Farley  was  Brackett's  partner — "to  buy 
Great  Lakes — buy  all  he  can  get — at  any  price. 
Somebody's  trying  to  corner  us !" 

He  felt — with  an  instinct  he  could  not  ques 
tion — that  there  was  indeed  a  corner  in  Great 
Lakes,  that  he  and  his  house  and  their  associates 
were  caught.  Caught  with  promises  to  deliver 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  shares  of  Great 
Lakes,  when  Great  Lakes  could  be  had  only  of 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  395 

the  mysterious  cornerer,  and  at  whatever  price  he 
might  choose  to  ask! 

"If  we've  got  to  go  down,"  he  said  to  himself 
"I'll  see  that  it's  a  tremendous  smash  anyhow, 
and  that  we  ain't  alone  in  it."  For  he  had  in  him 
the  stuff  that  makes  a  man  lead  a  forlorn  hope 
with  a  certain  joy  in  the  very  hopelessness  of  it. 

The  scene  on  the  day  of  Dumont's  downfall 
was  a  calm  in  comparison  with  the  scene  which 
Dumont,  sitting  alone  among  the  piled-up  coils 
of  ticker-tape,  was  reconstructing  from  its,  to 
him,  vivid  second-by-second  sketchings. 

The  mysterious  force  which  had  produced  a 
succession  of  earthquakes  moved  horribly  on,  still 
in  mystery  impenetrable,  to  produce  a  cataclysm. 
In  the  midst  of  the  chaos  two  vast  whirlpools 
formed — one  where  Great  Lakes  sucked  down 
men  and  fortunes,  the  other  where  Woolens  drew 
some  down  to  destruction,  flung  others  up  to 
wealth.  Then  Rumor,  released  by  Tavistock 
when  Dumont  saw  that  the  crisis  had  anived,  ran 
hot  foot  through  the  Exchange,  screaming  into 
the  ears  of  the  brokers,  shrieking  through  the 
telephones,  howling  over  the  telegraph  wires,  "A 
corner!  A  corner!  Great  Lakes  is  cornered!" 
Thousands  besides  the  Fanning-Smith  coterie  had 


396  THE  COST 

been  gambling  in  Great  Lakes,  had  sold  shares 
they  did  not  have.  And  now  all  knew  that  to  get 
them  they  must  go  to  the  unknown,  but  doubtless 
merciless,  master-gambler — unless  they  could  save 
themselves  by  instantly  buying  elsewhere  before 
the  steel  jaws  of  the  corner  closed  and  clinched. 

Reason  fled,  and  self-control.  The  veneer  of 
civilization  was  torn  away  to  the  last  shred;  and 
men,  turned  brute  again,  gave  themselves  up  to 
the  elemental  passions  of  the  brute. 

In  the  quiet,  beautiful  room  in  upper  Fifth 
Avenue  was  Dumont  in  his  wine-colored  wadded 
silk  dressing-gown  and  white  silk  pajamas.  The 
floor  near  his  lounge  was  littered  with  the  snake- 
like  coils  of  ticker-tape.  They  rose  almost  to  his 
knees  as  he  sat  and  through  telephone  and  ticker 
drank  in  the  massacre  of  his  making,  glutted  him 
self  with  the  joy  of  the  vengeance  he  was  taking 
— on  his  enemie"s,  on  his  false  or  feeble  friends, 
on  the  fickle  public  that  had  trampled  and  spat 
upon  him.  His  wet  hair  was  hanging  in  strings 
upon  his  forehead.  His  face  was  flushed  and  his 
green-gray  eyes  gleamed  like  a  mad  dog's.  At 
intervals  a  jeer  or  a  grunt  of  gratified  appetite 
ripped  from  his  mouth  or  nose.  Like  a  great  lean 
spider  he  lay  hid  in  the  center  of  that  vast  net  of 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  397, 

electric  wires,  watching  his  prey  writhe  helpless. 

Pauline,  made  uneasy  by  his  long  isolation, 
opened  his  door  and  looked — glanced,  rather. 
As  she  closed  it,  in  haste  to  shut  from  view  that 
spectacle  of  a  hungry  monster  at  its  banquet  of 
living  flesh,  Culver  saw  her  face.  Such  an  ex 
pression  an  angel  might  have,  did  it  chance  to 
glance  down  from  the  battlements  of  heaven  and, 
before  it  could  turn  away,  catch  a  glimpse  of  some 
orgy  in  hell. 

But  Dumont  did  not  hear  the  door  open  and 
close.  He  was  at  the  climax  of  his  feast. 

Upon  his  two  maelstroms,  sucking  in  the 
wreckage  from  a  dozen  other  explosions  as  well 
as  from  those  he  had  directly  caused,  he 
could  see  as  well  as  if  he  were  among  the  fas 
cinated,  horrified  spectators  in  the  galleries  of  the 
Exchange,  the  mangled  flotsam  whirling  and  de 
scending  and  ascending.  The  entire  stock  list, 
the  entire  speculating  public  of  the  country  was 
involved.  And  expression  of  the  emotions  every 
where  was  by  telegraph  and  telephone  concen 
trated  in  the  one  hall,  upon  the  faces  and  bodies 
of  those  few  hundred  brokers.  All  the  passions 
which  love  of  wealth  and  dread  of  want  breed  in 
the  human  animal  were  there  finding  vent — all 


398  THE  COST 

degrees  and  shades  and  modes  of  greed,  of  hate, 
of  fear,  of  despair.  It  was  like  a  shipwreck  where 
the  whole  fleet  is  flung  upon  the  reefs,  and  the 
sailors,  drunk  and  insane,  struggle  with  death 
each  in  his  own  awful  way.  It  was  like  the  rout 
where  frenzied  victors  ride  after  and  among 
frenzied  vanquished  to  shoot  and  stab  and  saber. 
And  while  this  battle,  precipitated  by  the  pas 
sions  of  a  few  "captains  of  industry,"  raged  in 
Wall  Street  and  filled  the  nation  with  the  clamor 
of  ruined  or  triumphant  gamblers,  ten-score  thou 
sand  toilers  in  the  two  great  enterprises  directly 
involved  toiled  tranquilly  on — herding  sheep  and 
shearing  them,  weaving  cloths  and  dyeing  them, 
driving  engines,  handling  freight,  conducting 
trains,  usefully  busy,  adding  to  the  sum  of  hu 
man  happiness,  subtracting  from  the  sum  of  hu 
man  misery. 

At  three  o'clock  Dumont  sank  back  among  his 
cushions  and  pillows.  His  child,  his  other  self, 
his  Woolens  Monopoly,  was  again  his  own;  his 
enemies  were  under  his  heel,  as  much  so  as  those 
heaps  and  coils  of  tickerrtape  he  had  been  churn 
ing  in  his  excitement.  "I'm  dead  tired,"  he  mut* 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  MIGHT  399 

tered,  his  face  ghastly,  his  body  relaxed  in  utter 
exhaustion. 

He  closed  his  eyes.  "I  must  sleep — I've  earned 
it.  To-morrow" — a  smile  flitted  round  his  mouth 
— "I'll  hang  their  hides  where  every  coyote  and 
vulture  can  see." 

Toward  four  o'clock  in  came  Doctor  Sackett 
and  Culver.  The  room  was  flooded  with  light 
— the  infinite  light  of  the  late-spring  afternoon 
reflected  on  the  white  enamel  and  white  brocade 
of  walls  and  furniture.  On  the  floor  in  the  heaps 
and  coils  of  ticker-tape  lay  Dumont. 

In  his  struggles  the  tape  had  wound  round  and 
round  his  legs,  his  arms,  his  neck.  It  lay  in  a 
curling,  coiling  mat,  like  a  serpent's  head,  upon 
his  throat,  where  his  hands  clutched  the  collar 
of  his  pajamas. 

Sackett  knelt  beside  him,  listening  at  his  chest, 
feeling  for  his  pulse — in  vain.  And  Culver  stood 
by,  staring  stupidly  at  the  now  worthless  instru 
ment  of  his  ambition  for  wealth  and  power. 


XXVIII. 

AFTER  THE  LONG  WINTER. 

Within  two  hours  Langdon,  in  full  control,  had 
arranged  with  Tavistock  to  make  the  imperiled 
victory  secure.  Thus,  not  until  the  next  day  but 
one  did  it  come  out  that  the  cataclysm  had  been 
caused  by  a  man  ruined  and  broken  and  with  his 
back  against  death's  door  to  hold  it  shut;  that 
Dumont  himself  had  turned  the  triumphing  host 
of  his  enemies  into  a  flying  mob,  in  its  panic 
flinging  away  its  own  possessions  as  well  as  its 
booty. 

Perhaps  the  truth  never  would  have  been 
known,  perhaps  Langdon  would  have  bribed 
Tavistock  to  silence  and  would  have  posed  as  the 
conquering  genius,  had  he  found  out  a  day  earlier 
how  Dumont  had  put  himself  in  funds.  As  it 
was,  this  discovery  did  not  come  too  late  for  him 
to  seize  the  opportunity  that  was  his  through  Du- 
mont's  secret  methods,  Pauline's  indifference 
to  wealth  and  his  own  unchecked  authority.  He 
has  got  many  an  hour  of — strictly  private — 

mental  gymnastics  out  of  the  moral  problem  he 
400 


AFTER  THE  LONG  WINTER  '401 

saw,  in  his  keeping  for  himself  and  Gladyf 
the  spoils  he  gathered  up.  He  is  inclined  to  think 
he  was  intelligent  rather  than  right;  but,  know 
ing  his  weakness  for  self-criticism,  he  never  gives 
a  positive  verdict  against  himself.  That,  how 
ever,  is  unimportant,  as  he  is  not  the  man  to  per 
mit  conscience  to  influence  conduct  in  grave  mat 
ters. 

He  feels  that,  in  any  case,  he  did  not  despoil 
Pauline  or  Gardiner.  For,  after  he  had  told  her 
what  Dumont  did — and  to  protect  himself  he 
hastened  to  tell  it — she  said:  "Whatever  there 
may  be,  it's  all  for  Gardiner.  I  waive  my  own 
rights,  if  I  have  any.  But  you  must  give  me  your 
word  of  honor  that  you  won't  let  anything  taint 
ed  pass  to  him."  Langdon,  judging  with  the 
delicacy  of  a  man  of  honor  put  on  honor,  was 
able  to  find  little  such  wealth. 

He  gives  himself  most  of  the  credit  for  Gardi' 
ner's  turning  out  so  well — "Inherited  riches  are 
a  hopeless  handicap,"  he  often  says  to  Gladys 
when  they  are  talking  over  the  future  of  their 
children. 

Pauline — 

The  first  six  months  of  her  new  life,  of  hei 


402  THE  COST 

resumed  life,  she  spent  in  Europe  with  her  father 
and  mother  and  Gardiner.  Late  in  the  fall  they 
were  back  at  Saint  X,  at  the  old  house  in  Jeffer 
son  Street.  In  the  following  June  came  Scar 
borough.  She  was  in  the  garden,  was  waiting 
for  him,  was  tying  up  a  tall  rose,  whose  splendid, 
haughty  head  had  bent  under  the  night's  rain. 

He  was  quite  near  her  when  she  heard  his  step 
and  turned.  He  stood,  looked  at  her — the  look 
she  had  seen  that  last  afternoon  at  Battle  Field. 
He  came  slowly  up  and  took  both  her  hands. 
"After  all  the  waiting  and  longing  and  hoping," 
he  said,  "at  last — you !  I  can't  put  it  into  words 
— except  to  say — just — Pauline!" 

She  drew  a  long  breath ;  her  gaze  met  his.  And 
in  her  eyes  he  saw  a  flame  that  had  never  shone 
dearly  there  before — the  fire  of  her  own  real  self, 
free  and  proud.  "Once  you  told  me  about  your 
father  and  mother — how  he  cared — cared  al 
ways." 

"I  remember,"  he  answered. 

"Well— I — I,"  said  Pauline,  "I  care  as  she 
must  have  cared  when  she  gave  him  herself — and 
you." 

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A  vivid  yet  delicate  portrayal  of  characters  in  an  old  New  England  town. 

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TOLD  BY  UNCLE  REMUS.    By  Joel  Chandler  Harris.    Dins- 
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MARY  JANE'S  PA.    By  Norman  Way.    Illustrated  with  scenes 

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CHERUB  DEVINE.    By  Sewell  Ford. 

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THE  SQUAW    MAN.     By  Julie  Opp  Faversham  and  Edwin 

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A  glowing  story,  rapid  in  action,  bright  in  dialogue  with  a  fine  courageous 
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THE  GIRL  IN  WAITING.     By  Archibald  Eyre.     Illustrated 

with  scenes  from  the  play. 

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Illustrated  by  Lucius  Hitchcock. 

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OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  By  Margaret  Deland.  Illustrated 

by  Howard  Pyle. 

Stories  portraying  with  delightful  humor  and  pathos  a  quaint  peo 
ple  in  a  sleepy  old  town.  Dr.  Lavendar,  a  very  human  and  lovable 
"preacher,"  is  the  connecting  link  between  these  dramatic  stories 
from  life. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE.    By  E.  P.  Roe. 

With  frontispiece. 

The  hero  is  a  farmer — a  man  with  honest,  sincere  views  of  life. 
Beieft  of  his  wife,  his  home  is  cared  for  by  a  succession  of  domes 
tics  of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  until,  from  a  most  unpromis 
ing  source,  comes  a  young  woman  who  not  only  becomes  his  wife 
but  commands  his  respect  and  eventually  wins  his  love.  A  bright 
and  delicate  romance,  revealing  on  both  sides  a  love  that  surmounts 
all  difficulties  and  survives  the  censure  of  friends  as  well  as  the  bit 
terness  of  enemies. 

THE  YOKE.    By  Elizabeth  Miller. 

Against  the  historical  background  of  the  days  when  the  children 
of  Israel  were  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  author  has 
sketched  a  romance  of  compelling  charm.  A  biblical  novel  as  great 
as  any  since  "  Ben  Hur." 

SAUL  OF  TARSUS.    By  Elizabeth  Miller.     Illustrated  by 

Andre*  Castaigne. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  Jerusalem,  Alexandria,  Rome 
and  Damascus.  The  Apostle  Paul,  the  Martyr  Stephen,  Herod 
Agrippa  and  the  Emperors  Tiberius  and  Caligula  are  among  the 
mighty  figures  that  move  through  the  pages.  Wonderful  descrip 
tions,  and  a  love  story  of  the  purest  and  noblest  type  mark  this 
most  remarkable  religious  romance. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
a  visit  is  due  from  his  Aunt  Selina,  an  elderly  lady  having  ideas 
about  things  quite  apart  from  the  Bohemian  set  in  which  her 
nephew  is  a  shining  light.  The  way  in  which  matters  are  tempo 
rarily  adjusted  forms  the  motif  of  the  story. 

A  farcical  extravaganza,  dramatized  under  the  title  of  "Seven  Days" 
THE  FASHIONABLE  ADVENTURES  OF  JOSHUA 
CRAIG.  By  David  Graham  Phillips.  Illustrated. 

A  young  westerner,  uncouth  and  unconventional,  appears  in 
political  and  social  life  in  Washington.  He  attains  power  in  poli 
tics,  and  a  young  woman  of  the  exclusive  set  becomes  his  wife,  un 
dertaking  his  education  in  social  amenities. 

"DOC."  GORDON.  By  Mary  E.  Wilkins-Freeman.  Illus 
trated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Against  the  familiar  background  of  American  town  life,  the 
author  portrays  a  group  of  people  strangely  involved  in  a  mystery. 
"Doc.  Gordon,  the  one  physician  of  the  place,  Dr.  Elliot,  his 
assistant,  a  beautiful  woman  and  her  altogether  charming  daughter 
are  all  involved  in  the  plot.  A  novel  of  great  interest. 

HOLY  ORDERS.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

A  dramatic  story,  in  which  is  pictured  a  clergyman  in  touch  with 
society  people,  stage  favorites,  simple  village  folk,  powerful  finan 
ciers  and  others,  each  presenting  vital  problems  to  this  man  "in 
holy  orders" — problems  that  we  are  now  struggling  with  in  America. 
KATRINE.  By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane.  With  frontispiece. 

Katrine,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  lovely  Irish  girl,  of  lowly 
birth,  but  gifted  with  a  beautiful  voice. 

The  narrative  is  based  on  the  facts  of  an  actual  singer's  career, 
and  the  viewpoint  throughout  is  a  most  exalted  one. 

THE   FORTUNES    OF  FIFI.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

A  story  of  life  in  France  at  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Fifi, 
a  glad,  mad  little  actress  of  eighteen,  is  the  star  performer  in  a  third 
rate  Parisian  theatre.  A  story  as  dainty  as  a  Watteau  painting. 

SHE  THAT  HESITATES.  By  Harris  Dickson.  Illus 
trated  by  C.  W.  Relyea. 

The  scene  of  this  dashing  romance  shifts  from  Dresden  to  St. 
Petersburg  in  the  reign  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  then  to  New  Orleans. 

The  hero  is  a  French  Soldier  of  Fortune,  and  the  princess,  who 
hesitates — but  you  must  read  the  story  to  know  how  she  that  hesitates 
may  be  lost  and  yet  saved. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

HAPPY  HAWKINS.    By  Robert  Alexander  Wason.    Illus- 

trated  by  Howard  Giles. 

A  ranch  and  cowboy  novel.  Happy  Hawkins  tells  his  own  story 
with  such  a  fine  capacity  for  knowing  how  to  do  it  and  with  so  much 
humor  that  the  reader's  interest  is  held  in  surprise,  then  admiration 
and  at  last  in  positive  affection. 

COMRADES.    By  Thomas  Dixon,  Jr.    Illustrated  by  C.  D. 
Williams. 

The  locale  of  this  story  is  in  California,  where  a  few  socialists 
establish  a  little  community. 

The  author  leads  the  little  band  along  the  path  of  disillusion 
ment,  and  gives  some  brilliant  flashes  of  light  on  one  side  of  an 
important  question. 
TONO-BUNGAY.    By  Herbert  George  Wells. 

The  hero  of  this  novel  is  a  young  man  who,  through  hard  work, 
earns  a  scholarship  and  goes  to  London. 

Written  with  a  frankness  verging  on  Rousseau's,  Mr.  Wells  still 
uses  rare  discrimination  and  the  border  line  of  propriety  is  never 
crossed.    An  entertaining  book  with  both  a  story  and  a  moral,  and 
without  a  dull  page — Mr.  Wells's  most  notable  achievement. 
A  HUSBAND  BY  PROXY.    By  Jack  Steele. 

A  young  criminologist,  but  recently  arrived  in  New  York  cityv 
is  drawn  into  a  mystery,  partly  through  financial  need  and  partly 
through  his  interest  in  a  beautiful  woman,  who  seems  at  times  the 
simplest  child  and  again  a  perfect  mistress  of  intrigue  A  baffling 
detective  story. 

LIKE  ANOTHER  HELEN.    By  George  Horton.    Illus 
trated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

Mr.  Horton's  powerful  romance  stands  in  a  new  field  and  brings 
an  almost  unknown  world  in  reality  before  the  reader — the  world 
of  conflict  between  Greek  and  Turk  on  the  Island  of  Crete.  The 
"  Helen  "  of  the  story  is  a  Greek,  beautiful,  desolate,  defiant— pure 
as  snow.  ^ 

There  is  a  certain  new  force  about  the  story,  a  kind  of  master* 
craftsmanship  and  mental  dominance  that  holds  the  reader. 
THE    MASTER    OF    APPLEBY.     By    Francis    Lynde, 
Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

"A  novel  tale  concerning  itself  in  part  with  the  great  struggle  in 
the  two  Carolinas,  but  chiefly  with  the  adventures  therein  of  two 
gentlemen  who  loved  one  and  the  same  lady. 

A  strong,  masculine  and  persuasive  story. 

A  MODERN  MADONNA.    By  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley. 

A  story  of  American  life,  founded  on  facts  as  they  existed  some 
years  ago  in  the  District  of  Columbia.  The  theme  is  the  maternal 
love  and  splendid  courage  of  a  woman. 

-  GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN'S 
STORIES   OF  PURE   DELIGHT 

Full   of   originality   and    humor,    kindliness   and   cheer 

THE  OLD  PEABODY  PEW.  Large  Octavo.  Decorative 
text  pages,  printed  in  two  colors.  Illustrations  by  Alice 
Barber  Stephens. 

One  of  the  prettiest  romances  that  has  ever  come  from  this 
author's  pen  is  made  to  bloom  on  Christmas  Eve  in  the  sweet 
freshness  of  an  old  New  England  meeting  house. 

PENELOPE'S  PROGRESS.  Attractive  cover  design  in 
colors. 

Scotland  is  the  background  for  the  merry  doings  of  three  very 
clever  and  original  American  girls.  Their  adventures  in  adjusting 
themselves  to  the  Scot  and  his  land  are  full  of  humor. 

PENELOPE'S  IRISH  EXPERIENCES.  Uniform  in  style 
with  "Penelope's  Progress." 

The  trio  of  clever  girls  who  rambled  over  Scotland  cross  the  bor 
der  to  the  Emerald  Isle,  and  again  they  sharpen  their  wits  against 
new  conditions,  and  revel  in  the  land  of  laughter  and  wit. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artis 
tic,  unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  cut  midst  a  circle 
of  austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phe 
nomenal  dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA.  With  illustrations 
by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Some  more  quaintly  amusing  chronicles  that  carry  Rebecca 
through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

ROSE  O'  THE  RIVER.  With  illustrations  by.  George 
Wright. 

The  simple  story  of  Rose,  a  country  girl  and  Stephen  a  sturdy 
young  farmer,  The  girl's  fancy  for  a  city  man  interrupts  their  love 
and  merges  the  story  into  an  emotional  strain  where  the  reader  fol 
lows  the  events  with  rapt  attention. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


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